The Dark Descent
by 9Tiptoes
Summary: New Summary: When Dean is left to deal with the emotional aftermath of Sam's hospitalization, he stumbles across a familiar face, who might be able to help. Written entirely before S07E17.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Spoiler Alert**: For anything beyond 7.12. Includes specific spoilers to upcoming episodes and guest stars. Please do not read if you do not want to be spoiled. This is MY vision of how a particular event will take place. Enjoy and be sure to review, because I'm considering going further with this idea, but I need feedback...cuz I'm a review _whore!_

**Disclaimer:** The only thing that belongs to me are the crazy ideas within.

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><p>What's a guy to do when everything – everyone – in his life is stripped away from him, one by one, until he's left with nothing and no one but himself – literally? Does he go out and fulfill his father's legacy of seeking vengeance on everyone who's ever harmed him? And he could think of a few…Hell there's a couple douchebag hunters floating around somewhere that have more than a bullet to the brain coming to them for what they done. Or does he curl up in a ball in the corner of a padded room right next to his brother's and rock himself into oblivion? And now that that gem of an idea's been introduced, it doesn't sound like such a bad idea. Or does he take off; run to some far corner of the world where no one would ever have a clue who he is or who he had been and there will never be any expectations put upon him, no responsibilities, no demands for salvation, nothing but to exist? Or why even exist at all? He could take the Colt that's burning its desire into the small of his back where it's tucked into his waistband; take it and bury a bullet deep into his brain and then it would be over. He would be over. To Hell with peace and life everlasting. To Hell with that two-lane blacktop in the sky, paved just for him and his brother and his precious Impala to cruise for eternity. Neither of them was going there anyway. Not now. Not after everything. So what's left? If he didn't have the energy for revenge; if an adjoining room in the nuthouse with his brother wasn't even a consideration; if Bali was off the map right along w Heaven, then what was left?

Dean stopped walking. He looked up from the pavement and had to take a moment to let his eyes adjust to the world outside the grey square slabs of concrete. He'd been walking so long, in no particular direction, for miles maybe, he wasn't sure. And now looking around, a small voice in his head panicked, saying: 'You stupid fucker. You got us lost.'

"Shut up, we're not lost."

And he wasn't, because there was one thing Dean Winchester knew for sure: he would never forget this town; this little town in the middle of Missouri that was the cause of so much pain in his life. It had taken Cas from them and now…it had taken Sam too. So, no. He was definitely not lost. He…just didn't know where he was…exactly.

"See? Look, there's a bar."

Sure. Why not? Why not fall back on ole reliable? A fifth of Scotch and everything would look right in the world…or at least he won't be able to _see_ the world. It was a win-win.

Dean made an immediate left across the street, dodging through what little traffic there was and then burst through the door of darkened bar; a chorus of grunts rising up in protest of the sudden wave of light from the outside world. Dean stood there for a minute, letting his senses adjust to the new environment and then he made his way to the bar.

"What'll it be?" the nameless, faceless bartender asked.

"Scotch, neat…double."

There was a nod of confirmation, a pat of the man's hand against the bartop and then as if by magic, a glass with three fingers of the golden whiskey was set, warming in his hands. And all Dean could do was to sit there, stare and let himself be mesmerized by the honey swirls.

"You gonna drink that, son? Or are you waitin' for it to evaporate?"

"What?"

Dean looked up, confused and slightly taken aback by the question. Of course he was gonna drink the Scotch. What kind of stupid question was that? He'd only just given –

"You've been sitting here for three hours, guy, staring into that glass like it holds the secrets to the known Universe. Trust me, if ya ain't found it yet, you're not gonna find it in there, so either drink the drink or walk away."

"What?"

Dean checked his watch and disbelieving it, tapped the glass and listened for the tell-tale tick-tick of a healthy watch.

"Your watch is fine. It's you that's not alright. You want me to call someone for you to come pick you up? A cab, maybe, to take you home?"

"Don't have one," Dean muttered, "Don't have anyone," and in his head, Elliot Ness snarked, 'Well boo hoo, son. Cry me a river.' But Dean ignored him. He pushed the glass of Scotch back across to the bartender, took a $20 from his wallet and laid it on the bar –not waiting for the change – and left the bar.

Stepping out into the cool air of early evening, Dean pulled his jacket tight around him and stood just outside of the doorway not knowing what his next move would be; not knowing where to go. He couldn't seem to get a handle on anything at the moment; just so lost and confused and what was he gonna do about Sam? What was he gonna do _without_ Sam?

Find Dick Roman; that's what he should be doing. Find the bastard and tear him limb from limb and once that was done, he would salt-n-burn the lil' prick and get high on the acrid fumes of its flesh. That would make everything…

Dean sighed. Who was he kidding? He didn't have it in him; this fight. Not at this juncture, anyhow. Hell, it took all his will power to keep his legs from giving out on him; all his strength not to slide down the outer wall of the bar and rest his head on top of his knees and cry.

There'd been so many times over the years when he'd ask: 'Haven't we given enough?' And through all those years, not once did he ever truly believe there would come a time when he literally would have nothing left to give. Not once. Until now.

"Fuck." He groaned and tried to physically shake himself out of his funk, letting his arms and neck go loose in the process. "Okay, ya gotta move, man. Can't stand around feelin' sorry for yourself. Sammy'd never let you get away with that. Need to find a place to stay, figure out your next move. First things first, though…you _gotta_ stop talking to yourself."

Looking around, Dean once again found his world spinning. He had no clue where he was. He'd left the car – if you could call the Coronet a car – in the parking lot of MHI and had not a clue one how to get back.

The day Dean had driven up with the smudge green and wood trim station wagon, Sam had laughed at him; fallen on the floor laughing, actually. But Dean had defended his choice, or lack thereof, by explaining that the '75 Dodge was a classic…even if it did look like a beast. Handled like one too; kinda slow and sluggish with shocks that did nothing to keep the monster of a car from loping gently down any bumpy road they encountered. It was the kind of ride that could put you to sleep if you weren't too careful. So could his train of thought today, if he wasn't careful.

Dean shook the cobwebs from his head and made a left, walking away from the bar. No wait…hadn't he come from the other direction? He turned back around and started again. Maybe it would be better, he thought, if he'd had the bartender call MHI to come pick him up. A day or two or 28 in a padded room might not be _such_ a bad idea. As it was he was already talking to himself, zoning out for hours on end, lost in the piss-hole town that ruined his life, and, "Oh, and now I'm hearing things. That's just great."

Dean stopped to listen to the back and forth sound of friendly conversation, bouncing and echoing through that quiet section of town. Something scratched inside his head, an ache of familiarity and recognition in the deep tenor of the man's voice. Dean stilled. Frozen and waiting on baited breath for his head to catch up with what the rest of him already knew. And then he heard it again; the dry chuckle that Dean had worked so long and hard for all those times, just because he _needed_ to see the guy relax once in a while. And in his head, he could see the cockeyed grin and brilliant blue eyes that squinted a bit around the edges when he smiled. And every fiber in Dean's body was telling him to run. Run away. Run towards. Just run, because there was no doubt in his mind what-so-ever, that the voice he was hearing, just around the corner was Cas.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: They're not mine. I just like to play with them and Dean kinda likes the frilly skirts.

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><p>It was if for one moment the world stood still. As if everything around him slowed to a stop and all sound dulled down to a low, muted roar, except for that one voice, somewhere off around the corner in the distance. They were coming closer; Cas and whoever he was talking to. He could feel them coming closer; their every step, like the beat of his own heart, pounding in his chest.<p>

Dean closed his eyes and let his head dip forward, turning slowly from one side to the other; listening for the exchange, straining to catch which direction they were coming from as their voices resonated through the brick and stone buildings. And as each second ticked by, the voices became clearer – louder – until the sound was bright and rich and Dean was spinning on his heal to see what his ears and heart already knew to be true. Cas.

At the far end of the block, a man and a woman appeared out from behind the corner building. They paused at the corner, looked both directions at the on-coming traffic and then jogged across the street, clinging to each other, their arms interlocked and giggling like school children who knew they were breaking rules.

Doubt and disappointment flooded into Dean. It wasn't Cas; just some guy and his girl out for an evening walk. Just some guy, who kinda looked like Cas, kinda sounded like Cas. Dean chuckled dryly at himself for even thinking that it might have been Cas in the first place. Cas was gone, just like every other person Dean had ever cared for. And looking at him now, _really_ looking at the man at the far end of the street, Dean could see very few similarities. Build and hair color; they were the same, but it was hard to overlook the blaring differences. His clothes for one; it was near impossible to imagine Cas – Castiel, an Angel of the Lord – wearing blue jeans, an over shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a jacket slung over one shoulder. The man looked…well, for the lack of better words, he looked like Dean. But it wasn't just his clothes. It was his posture, his whole demeanor. It was the bounce in his step and the way he leaned down into his companion suggestively to whisper something which made her giggle and swat at him.

"Oh my God," she squealed, her giggles bubbling up and carrying in the wind. "That's so cheesy, where did you pick up that line?"

"I learned that from the pizza man," he answered with a grin and pulled her tight into his side as they continued down the next block, disappearing behind the building.

Dean smirked, shaking his head in amusement. Pizza man…classy. He turned back towards what he hoped was the direction of MHI and his car, stuffing his hands down into his pockets and walked a few steps when the memory hit him like a lightning bolt. That evil bitch sticking her tongue down Cas's throat; distracting him while she hijacked the Angel sword from his side. But the shocker had been when Cas had taken her, slamming bodily into her and plunged in for a deeper, more searing kiss. Dean had felt a little dirty at that moment, but he'd be damned if he could look away. He'd told Cas once, 'You are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch,' but had never assumed it might be _Meg_ to come along and offer to pop Cas's cherry. He and Sam had stared incredulously at Cas; gaping with open mouths when Cas had reasoned that he'd 'learned that from the pizza man'.

"Shit."

Without hesitation, Dean moved into action, running toward the far corner that the man and woman had just disappeared around. Forget the doubts he had over this man's identity, screw the fear of discovering he was completely wrong, fuck the feelings of betrayal and loss and bitter anger over past transgressions. Dean had to know; good or bad…this was important. This was necessary; crucial even. This was a car about to run his ass over in the middle of the – "Umph."

Dean smacked hard into the center of the hood, his legs swept out from under him, his body rolling up and on to the windshield. The car screeched to a stop, throwing Dean's ragdoll body to the ground with a sick, dull thud of dead weight.

"Oh God! Oh jeez!"

Throwing the driver's door wide open, a kid who couldn't be more than eighteen jumped out and came tearing around to the front of the car, his hands tight in his hair, looking from Dean to the car and back to Dean again.

"Holy shit, mister. Are you okay? Oh my God, my dad is gonna kill me! I didn't even see you, man, until you jumped out in front of me. Shit! God, was this like a suicide attempt? Did you just try 'death by car' or something?"

"Shut. Up," Dean groaned, pushing himself up.

There were many reasons their dad had always insisted on them dressing in layers; a list of twenty-three reasons to be exact, but the three most important reasons were: storage, multitasking, and protection. Had it not been for his jacket and the extra padding the over shirt provided, Dean would now be torn up with road rash. As it was, he hands were shredded at each knuckle from covering his head and face when he hit the pavement, as were the knees of his jeans and his brand new boots and he hurt all over. But Dean didn't want to think about what bruises or possible broken bones may lay hidden beneath.

When he slowly pulled himself up off the ground, his body flared with bright, white-hot pain and he groaned weekly; his eyes trying to roll right out of his head.

"Hey, buddy, you gotta stay down," the kid advised, trying to hold Dean in place.

"Oh my God," Dean thundered. "Kid, if you don't back the Hell off of me, so help me God, I'm gonna beat you within an inch of your life."

"I'm just trying to help," the kid whined, backing away with his hands raised high.

Rising to his full height, despite the bite of agony in his back, Dean glowered menacingly at the kid.

"Don't you think you've _'helped'_ enough?"

And then turned and walked away, continuing his pursuit, albeit a little slower than before.

"What about my car?" the kid cried.

"Screw your car!" Dean hollered over his shoulder. "It's a piece of shit Cavalier. Do yourself a favor: sack up and get a real car."

Safely on the sidewalk and around the corner, away from prying eyes, Dean let his hobble show. Sonuvabitch that hurt. He was gonna be feelin' that for days. Dean just prayed that he didn't _actually_ have any broken bones, because at this moment, there was far too much adrenaline in his system for him to notice something as trivial as a broken arm or something. He huffed out a quick laugh, realizing that if he did indeed have a serious injury, or for that matter, even a non-serious injury, he had no one to take care of it; no one to stitch him up or pop his 'trick' shoulder back into place. Those had been Sam's jobs and well…I'm sorry, Dean, but little Sammy can't come out to play right now.

"Don't get punchy," Dean warned himself.

He moved again, following in the direction that the man – Cas, his mind chided – and the woman had gone. They were off in the distance, more than half a dozen blocks ahead of him now and he could just make out their forms in the waning light of day. Dean tried to pick up the pace, tried to jog to catch up, but his body screamed in protest and after a dozen steps or more, he was back to walking with a more pronounced limp.

Up ahead, the couple stopped to look into a store front window; the warm glow of the light within casting a golden halo effect around them. They were the picture of serene as Cas wrapped his arms around the woman from behind; his chin resting perfectly on her shoulder while she pointed out first this item and then that item. And although they were too far away for Dean to make out what she was saying, he could tell by the tone in her voice that they were comfortable together, had probably done this a dozen times and they seemed…happy.

And who the Hell gave them that right? Dean was suddenly struck by a wave of anger that flared up inside him and without regard for his own injured body, Dean picked up the pace again, trying to clear the distance. Five blocks now.

Seeing Cas and the woman step away from the window and continue on their path down the street and away from Dean; he called out to them, his voice rusty with the trauma of the accident.

"Hey."

Four blocks. Frustrated, he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Hey, Cas!"

Holding on tight to Cas's arm, the woman, glanced over her shoulder. She saw him; he knew she did, because she leaned in closer to Cas's side.

"Dammit, don't pretend you can't hear me," he yelled after them. Three blocks.

She said something to Cas then, and he too looked over his shoulder and saw Dean limping up the sidewalk as fast as his banged up knees would carry him. Cas put a hand to the small of the woman's back and directed her up the stairs of an apartment building, all the while, keeping a watchful eye on Dean's approach. At the top of the steps, they stopped. She tugged at his arm, wanting Cas to follow her inside, but he carefully shrugged her off, motioning to Dean, who was now only two blocks away. The woman shook her head, steadfast in her desire for Cas to come with her and he almost gave in to her; sagging slightly in his resolve.

He'd better not, Dean thought as he came within a block of the Angel. He'd better not walk away when he could _see _Dean, right here. Not _now, _after _months_ of Dean thinking the Angel was dead. Had he been alivethis whole time? And if so, why had he stayed _here_, of all places? Why hadn't he come to find them…help them fix what he'd broke? And not just Sam, although that was a whole, _big_ sticking point as far as Dean was concerned, but also the world. He'd asked Dean for forgiveness and sure Dean hadn't been prepared to forgive him, but it wasn't like Cas to give up on him. The Cas that he'd known would have come back, even in the face of all that had happened. He would have found them. He would have tried, again, to make it right. He would have fought alongside them to put the world right; to put Sam right.

So what did it mean that Cas hadn't come back? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean half-heartedly considered the notion that perhaps this wasn't so much Cas, as it was a Leviathan. That was, after-all, the way that Dean'd seen him last; possessed and sweating out inky goo from every pore and orifice, marring the features of the man – the Angel – he'd called friend-brother. And didn't that just bring up a whole new level of 'messed up' in Dean?

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Cas, and it was, really, for real Cas, Dean was at a loss for words. 'Hi, how ya doin'? Where the fuck have you been, Jerkface?' just didn't seem to cut it.

"I –"

Cas held up a palm, effectively cutting Dean off before he could even get started, and Dean couldn't help but flinch at the hand; wincing as if he expected the light of Grace to flash white-hot from Cas's palm and burn his ass up. But when that didn't happen, Dean opened his eyes to find that Cas had taken his lady friend, by the arms and was talking to her gently.

"Go on up," he said. "I'll be right in, okay?"

"Are you sure? Ja –"

He leaned down and stopped her argument with a kiss; soft and chaste and telling of his feelings for her. He let his forehead come to rest against hers and looked into her eyes with the kind of soulful look he'd always been known for; the kind that said: 'you're the only one I see.'

"Kay, it'll be fine. I promise."

With a deep breath and a nod of agreement, she pressed another kiss to his mouth and then turned into the apartment building, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at the stranger who was staring up at them; lost somewhere between disbelief and awe. And then Cas stepped down, blocking Dean from her view.

"Dude, what the –"

"Here," Cas cut him off again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip, peeling a ten off the top. He took a business card out of a silver case and pushed them both into Dean's hands; cupping his own warm hands around Dean's.

"This is my card. Go to this place and they can get you a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. There's a bus stop right there on the corner and," he glanced at his watch, "the bus should be showing up in the next five minutes. It can take you within a block of the center. Even if they're full, tell them I sent you…they won't turn you away. Take care of yourself, friend," Cas said, placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder and giving him a firm squeeze. "You're not alone in this."

Cas turned and jogged up the remaining steps, pressed a number into the keypad and disappeared inside, leaving Dean to stand in shock at the bottom of the steps, blinking and wondering what the _Hell_ had just happened.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Sorry for the delay. I've been working hard and will have the 4th part up later this week, so please stay w/ me. :)

Disclaimer: They're not mine. I just happen to have this really awesome library card, see...

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><p>Previously: "Take care of yourself, friend," Cas said, placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder and giving him a firm squeeze. "You're not alone in this."<p>

Cas turned and jogged up the remaining steps, pressed a number into the keypad and disappeared inside, leaving Dean to stand in shock at the bottom of the steps, blinking and wondering what the _Hell_ had just happened.

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><p>It had taken only a few seconds for the shock to wear off, and when it had, Dean had plowed up the steps and thrown himself at the door, cussing and yanking on a handle that would not give. Through the glass he'd seen Cas step into an elevator and the doors close behind him, oblivious to Dean banging his fist heavily into the glass.<p>

Dean had then spent two hours scouting the apartment building, trying first to break the security code on the key panel and then trying to just _break_ the key panel. After investigating all possible entrances, Dean had found himself a good vantage point from which to watch the building for signs of Cas, but several hours had passed and there'd been no signs of the Angel.

Dean had finally given in when the skies had opened up, dousing him in ice cold rain. He'd tucked the road-tattered jacket up around his neck and had walked away from the apartment, because what other choice did he have?

He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking, didn't know which direction he'd been walking in or if he was even heading back towards his car. His mind was much too busy, swirling with questions, the least of which was: What just happened? So it came as a bit of surprise to him when he found himself standing in front of the Angels of Mercy Crisis Center.

The center was an older brick building, several stories in height and looking like something between an old YMCA and an apartment building. At half past midnight, the place was dark except for the light at the entrance and a hallway light that reflected through the main floor office area. Dean took the business card out of his pocket, turning it over in his hand to study it – and the name on the card – for what was probably the twentieth time.

_**James Smith**_

_**Counselor**_

Who the Hell was James Smith? It was just all too much at one time. Losing Sammy to the dark, scary recesses of his mind and finding Cas all in the same day; except if Dean was to believe the business card he'd been given, he hadn't really so much as found Cas, as he had James Smith.

Without realizing he'd done it, Dean found himself at the door of the center with his finger poised over the button to buzz the front desk. A deep breath and a 'What are your other options?' later and Dean was inside, sitting on an army cot in a room full of occupied army cots, staring through the darkness, rubbing his sore, swollen hands and wondering what tomorrow could possibly bring.

Dean didn't remember falling asleep; didn't remember kicking off his boots or carefully peeling the jacket and over shirt from his sore body. He didn't remember lying down or pulling the thin wool blanket up over him or closing his eyes either, but apparently he'd done all of the above, because that was exactly how he found himself when he finally woke up the next day.

"Hey, Sammy, what time is it?" he asked, his voice raspy with sleep and muffled by the pillow he was face down in.

"A quarter after two. You missed breakfast _and_ lunch, I am afraid," replied definitely-not-Sam.

Cas! Startled, Dean rocketed out of his sleep, his arms flailing in attempt to turn over and sit up and regretting it immediately as a nauseous surge of pain ripped through his entire body. A firm hand gripped him by the arm and carefully pressed him back into the cot.

"Be careful. You're hurt. You don't want to injure yourself further. Or if you want to sit up, at least let me help you."

Slowly Dean rolled onto his back; all of his muscles and joints screaming their displeasure at him. That's what he got for stepping out into traffic, he guessed. He lay there panting, with his eyes squeezed shut and just a little afraid to open them. What if it had all been a mind trick, a fanciful dream he'd conjured up while reeling from the loss of his brother – if not in a physical sense? What if he'd just plain been mistaken? Cas had been an average guy…for an angel; average height, average build, average…everything. It wasn't like he'd stuck out like a sore thumb or had a neon sign above him, flashing: Angel. He'd just been…Cas. And last night Dean had been miserable, suffering and confused, so it was completely in the realm of possibilities, that Dean had just been wrong; a case of mistaken identity. It happened all the time, right? Except that the niggling voice in the back of his head continued to whisper: You know it's him.

"I'm glad you came here, Dean."

Dean's eyes snapped open and in that instant, looking up into the true-blue eyes of the man seated beside him, Dean almost wept with joy, roared in anger, and tossed his cookies; all simultaneously. It _was_ Cas. He'd been right all along. It was Cas; alive and in one piece and right here in front of him and Dean couldn't stop himself from reaching out to touch him, to solidify his belief.

"It _is_ Dean, right?" And just like that, Dean's world came crashing back down around him. "Jordan, the man who checked you in last night…he left a note that said a man named Dean had come in with my card."

"You don't-you don't know who I am?"

That was a stupid question, Dean berated himself; of course he didn't know who Dean was. He'd just said as much, hadn't he? It was all so confusing. The man looked exactly like Cas, sounded exactly like Cas, Hell…the way he was looking at Dean right then, with his head tilted to the side like a curious bird and his blue eyes full of concern…it was all _exactly_ like Cas. How could he not _be_ Cas?

"You're lost," Cas – _James_, Dean reminded himself – _James_ said, nodding his understanding, "I know that feeling. I've been lost myself…before." James offered his hand out to Dean and took him by the elbow, "Let me help you to sit up."

On a three count, they pulled; slowly easing Dean upright and around until his socked fee could rest on the cold, tiled floor. He sat there, exhausted and sagging from just that much effort; clinging to James's hand which was still locked around Dean's. James turned their hands over, taking in the noticeable damage and clucking his tongue like a mother hen.

"You're banged up all over, aren't you? How big was the truck that did this to you?"

"Cavalier," Dean answered.

James stifled a laugh, saying, "Oh, man, that's sad. Did you hurt it?"

Chuckling weakly at the ridiculousness of it, Dean slumped forward until his elbows found his knees and that's when he noticed it; his hand still gripped in James's. In his head, he heard himself chiding Cas over personal space boundaries all those times and yet here he sat, subconsciously holding onto to that life line of familiarity.

Dean made a subtle move to pull away, but was stopped when James firmed up his hold.

"You need to be looked at," he said with certainty.

"No. No doctors."

With a sigh of resignation and possibly frustration, James conceded, "Fine, no doctors, but we have a medic on staff and you _will_ see him before doing anything else."

Dean agreed and let himself be pulled carefully onto his feet. Standing face to face, it was so hard for Dean to reconcile the man before him with the Angel he'd known so well. Physically, they were the same person, but in every other possible way, they were completely different.

Dean was reminded of the way he had felt when the truth had come out about Sam and his soul…or lack thereof. It had been like a kid's puzzle: find the differences between these two pictures – and it had consumed Dean. He'd spent every waking hour and some of his non-waking hours, picking apart the puzzle that was RoboSam. He hated to admit it, but Dean was likely to do the same with James; pick him apart until all that was left was Cas, starting with –

"You're kinda bossy."


	4. Chapter 4

AN: If anyone has any concerns about where this is going, fear not...or maybe fear more...I've got wild ideas.

Disclaimer: Not mine, but that's never seemed to matter much to me. :)

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><p>Sam's final meltdown had been a week in the making. It had progressed fast, like sinking into a swarm of army ants; overpowered and incapacitated and then gone in a tide of red-brown. It wasn't to say that he didn't fight it. Oh, he'd fought it. Dean'd had the black eye and the bruised ribs to prove it, but towards the end, it just seemed as if Sam had made a conscious decision to vacate. He'd spent more and more time catatonic and less time psychotic and suicidal and Dean had felt a crushing swell of guilt at being relieved by the unnatural quiet after the storm. There had been one brief moment of clarity in that week of terror in which Dean had woken one morning to find Sam sipping coffee and scanning the internet. For Dean it had been kind of like coming out of his worst nightmare. He was skeptical and cautious waiting for the dream monster to jump out and eat his ass and yet overwhelmingly relieved by the sight. That was until he got a look at what it was that Sam was searching for.<p>

"Mental Health – dude, I'm not locking you up in some looney bin."

"Yes you will. Dean, I _need_ this."

"No, Sam," Dean had barked. He'd regretted it instantly when Sam visibly recoiled from him. Softer then, Dean said, "we'll find another way, Sammy."

"Dean..."

The sound of his little brother's voice, so small and pleading, had evoked a reaction in Dean that had been both powerful and immediate. Panic, anger and crushing despair; he'd wanted nothing more than to rail on his brother, to beat some sense into him until Sam realized once and for all that they were better together than apart. Hadn't they learned that over and over again?

But then Sam had turned around; his eyes swimming with fear and desperation and Dean's only option had been to collapse onto their makeshift couch, because his legs would no longer have held him up beneath the weight of his brother's misery. And then to make it worse, Sam had come to him there, crumpled down to his knees at Dean's feet, clinging to his pant legs and resting his forehead against Dean's knees in earnest prayer.

"Please, Dean," he had begged, his overgrown body racked with the sobs of a child and his voice failing, "please. It hurts…so…much. So tired…I'm so tired…please."

"Okay, Sammy. I've gotcha." Leaning forward – his body folded nearly in half – and gripping his brother as tightly as he could manage; Dean had held on for fear of letting go. He had threaded his hand through Sam's dark hair, scratched comforting circles into his scalp, and whispered, "Everything's gonna be okay. I promise, Sammy; it's gonna be okay."

That had been two days ago. And in the time since and up until Sam had been checked into the facility, not a moment had gone by in which Dean hadn't had a hold of his baby brother in one way or another. He'd driven across the state with one hand firmly braceleted around his brother's wrist and when Sam has slumped sleepily against him, Dean's hand had found its way into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting little ringlets between his fingers like he had when Sam was little. Just as it had been a comfort to Sam as a baby, it was now a comfort to Dean.

When it had come to signing papers, Sam had been surprisingly lucid and therefore the doctors had deemed it a voluntary committal which Dean agreed was for the better. It would definitely be easier to spring him when the time came and Dean had every intention of springing his brother as soon as it was conceivably possible.

Dean hadn't been allowed to follow Sam back to his room and for a long moment he hadn't been sure he was going to be able to let go of Sam's arm either. The orderly who had been waiting to walk Sam back had stepped up as if to physically detach Dean from his brother, but Sam had held up a calm hand, stopping the large, burly man in his tracks. And why were they always big, burly men, Dean had wondered as Sam had pulled him in for a strong, air-expelling hug, mouthed a 'thank you' into his shoulder, and then had pushed him away. Before Dean even knew what had happened, Sam had followed the orderly out of the room and was gone, leaving Dean to stand there in shock, on the verge of crying like a baby.

* * *

><p>The medic's room was sterile and bright with a high ceiling that made Dean feel small as he waited on the table for James to return with the medic. He sat there, quietly humming some long forgotten tune, picking at the blood stained tatters of the knees in his jeans and thinking over the events of the previous 24 hours which, for the most part, had been a numbing blur. Hell, the last twelve months had been a blur; a blur of one loss stacked up on top of another. Rufus and to a lesser extent, Gwen, and then Lisa and Ben, although that had been orchestrated by Dean himself, and Cas.<p>

Cas…and just how fucked up was _this_ situation? Cas was gone. Dean had seen it with his own eyes; watched the guy walk out into the water and be obliterated beneath the black stain that had plagued Dean ever since. And with him went the anger and the betrayal and the resentment, because it was kind of hard to hate a guy after he was dead. Not that Dean had _ever_ hated Cas; just the opposite, in fact. He hadn't been lying when he'd claimed that Cas was 'like a brother'. But as family tends to do, Dean had ignored all the signs that Cas had been struggling – and there'd been a fair share of signs. Looking back, Dean could see that now; could see that Cas had indeed been asking for help for months, only to be brushed off, because, in the hierarchy of family, Sam came first. Always.

Except now, Sam was safely tucked away in nuthouse and Cas? Well, Cas was suddenly alive and well and living some random dude's life. What was Dean supposed to do with that information? Some small part of him wanted to take the man – the Angel? – by the shoulders and shake the shit out of him until he admitted that it was all some elaborate ruse; some horrific practical joke and any minute now, everyone was going to jump out and yell 'surprise!' and Dean would stutter and laugh and, 'Oh you guys! You got me good.' Dean snorted. Oh yeah, like that could possibly happen.

And then another small part of him feared that maybe this was some trap laid out for him by Dick Fucking Roman; that this wasn't even Cas at all, just some Leviathan fuck, dressed up in Cas's likeness and sent to screw with Dean's head, as if his head wasn't screwed up enough as it was. And if that was the case, why was Dean still sitting here; waiting like a moron for the big-mouthed monster to come back and swallow him whole? Why?

Because it wasn't a Leviathan and it wasn't a joke; this was Cas. Dean was sure of it. So to Hell with his fears and his concerns. To Hell with the anger and betrayal and resentment. To Hell with all the questions clogging his thought process. Dean wasn't going to waste his time worrying about what coulda, woulda, shoulda happened. He wasn't going to hold onto the raw emotions of the past. Hell, he wasn't even going to succumb to the obsession over Dick Roman that he'd been nursing for far too long. Dean was going to let this bet ride and see where it took him; confident for the most part, that all roads pointed to Cas.

Dean glanced at his watch, not surprised that he'd been waiting nearly twenty minutes for James to return with the medic. "Typical doctor," Dean said to himself, swinging his feet in slow, lazy circles; his heels tapping lightly against the examining table. He couldn't help but enjoy the sick strain and pop of his right knee as his foot hit a certain point in its revolution. It just reminded him that he was real; as there had been far too many times in his life when he had questioned reality. He did not, however, question the feeling of being watched.

Looking up from where he was still tearing at the fibers of his jeans, Dean found James leaning against the doorway watching him; his arms crossed loosely over his chest and his head resting against the door jamb. The curious look was so much like Cas, that even though it was expected, Dean's breath still caught in his chest.

"Sorry," James apologized, coming into the room, "I didn't mean to startle you. It's just you…seeing you there, you reminded me…no, nevermind."

"No, what is it?" Dean blurted out, his heart leaping into his throat. Was it possible that Cas – James – was remembering? "I remind you of what?" he pressed.

James hesitated at first, his mouth twisting up into a crooked, bashful smile and shaking his head.

"It's kind of silly; nothing really," he said. "You just kind of reminded me of a little kid; scuffed knee, tousled hair, socked feet, it's just…cute." James's eyes widened, recognizing too late how strange it sounded.

"Awkward," Dean sang in a falsetto voice and then chuckled uneasily, trying to mask the disappointment he felt at not being remembered. "So this guy? The one who's gonna fix me up?"

"Hawkeye. He's running behind." James crossed the room to a corner cabinet and began to pull out things needed to clean up Dean's more obvious wounds. At the sink, he turned on the tap, filled a basin with hot water and then, setting it aside, scrubbed his own hands clean with soap under the tap. "He asked that I take care of the minor things while you wait."

"Hawkeye? Really?" Dean dropped his head to hide the grin stretching across his face, "I didn't realize this was a full-on M.A.S.H. unit."

"I-uh…don't get it," James revealed uncertainly. He moved back to Dean's side, bringing with him the pan of hot water as well as a second, empty basin and a clean cloth.

"M.A.S.H., you know…the old TV show? Hawkeye was chief surgeon…"

Pulling a stool up in front of Dean, James sat down so that they were face to face and he could easy work first on Dean's hands. "I guess…I guess I don't understand that reference. It was a show?"

"Only the best," Dean touted. "You don't remember it?"

James looked up and shrugged, "Before November, there's not a lot I _do_ remember. Here, hold this in your lap and lemme see your hands," he added, setting the empty basin across Dean's legs.

Dean frowned, instinctively pulling his hands back into his body, protectively, "Don't you think we've done enough hand holding today?"

"Man, get over yourself."

Rolling his eyes and moving quicker than lightning, James snatched Dean by the wrist and holding his hand over the basin, started washing Dean's abraded knuckles.

"You're not _even_ my type," James added with a sly smile, shocking Dean once again with the stark differences between James and Cas.

James was just some dude; a normal guy, who joked and laughed and – if the previous night was to be believed – had a girlfriend, and who'da thought Cas would be so smooth with the ladies? Dean still remembered the terrified 'bunny in the headlights' look Cas used to get when confronted by women. Then again, future Cas'd had all those groupies so there was obviously some kind of ladies' man buried in Cas's persona. James, though, was an ordinary, average Joe with a job and a life and…no memory beyond November? What did that _mean_, exactly?

Dean had never been a patient man; restless and short-fused, he'd always been a shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy, so it took an extraordinary amount of effort on his part to swallow down the questions which were bubbling up in his chest and even more will power to settle back and watch the practiced hands clean and tend to each of his wounds. And he was surprised to find that James moved with the same quick, efficiency that either he or his brother would demonstrate in a similar situation, bringing a whole new list of questions to light, until finally –

"What's that mean, exactly: Before November?"

James sat back, looking squarely at Dean and blinking as though he didn't understand the meaning of the words. His lower lip slipped up between his teeth where he worried it a bit as he formulated his answer and then cleared his throat.

"I-um…I don't remember anything of my life before November." He took a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh, like it had been a relief to get it out there.

Dean too had been holding his breath and it came out in a pant, feeling the anticipation building in his chest, "You mean like amnesia?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess so." James bent back over Dean's hands and picked up where he'd left off, carefully toweling each hand dry.

"And?" Dean asked; the eagerness visible in his face, as well as his voice.

"And, what?" James returned his gaze and shrugged, not understanding what could possibly cause Dean to look like a child at Christmas. "I woke up in a hospital; didn't know who I was or how I'd got there."

"D'you hit your head or something?"

There was something in Dean's voice – a flicker of frustration – that made James frown and pull away defensively, if only just a bit. But that flinch didn't go unnoticed by Dean, who stumbled through the recovery, "I mean, amnesia…that's usually a head injury, right?

"Most of the time, I guess, but not in my instance. The way the doctors tell it, I drowned."

Dean's heart thumped so loudly in his chest, that he was just sure James would be able to hear it. All of the pieces were falling neatly into place and Dean could hardly contain his need to whoop for joy, but he needed to hear more. He wanted to hear it all. So much time had passed and there were so many questions waiting to be answered, that Dean had to mentally reel it all back in; center and calm himself. No use showing his entire hand before the first bid had been cast.

"Drowned…wow." If Dean sounded a little too enthusiastic at the thought of James drowning, James didn't notice. Instead, he cracked open a tube of antibiotic, applied a thin layer to Dean's knuckles and began to lay clean, white gauze over the abrasions; wrapping the gauze around the entire hand.

"Yeah," James affirmed, continuing to work as he recounted the story, "Some guy working for the county found me floating face down in the local water treatment reservoir. One of the nurses told me that the doctors had actually declared me brain dead. They'd literally signed off on the paperwork and were discussing organ donation when everything in me just kinda…turned back on."

"Sounds like some kind of miracle."

"Whatever it was, it left me in a coma for another two weeks. I woke up towards the tail end of November and had no clue about anything. They started me on this fancy rehabilitation –"

"Like to remind you of who you were?"

"No, not really; more to get a feel for where I was physically and mentally. From what I understand, that reminder effect treatment doesn't really work and of course there was no one around who could remind me. I'm a total stranger here. No one had ever seen or heard of me before I showed up. I had no ID; nothing to tell anyone who I was. The police weren't able to track me down through missing persons reports either. It's like I just fell from the sky."

"So, where'd James Smith come from?"

"Me. Before I was released, I had to have a name. Couldn't walk around as John Doe for the rest of my life, could I? I don't know, it just seemed like a normal, average name; kinda how I felt."

"That's a missed opportunity, man. You should've picked yourself a porn star name. Something real classy like, Hugh Johnson," Dean said with a cheesy grin.

"Or, Harry Peters," James threw out.

"Right! Or Jack Mehoff," Dean said with a snap of his fingers. "You could have gone with a real porn star name, like Ron Jeremy. You could be his younger brother, Rick Jeremy."

"Or, uh…what's that guy's name from Casa Erotica 13? Gavin or Gab –"

"I dunno," Dean answered a little too quickly, his eyes going wide, "I've never seen that one," he denied, remembering all too well who it was starring in that particular part of the series. In fact, that was one view of an Angel that would be forever burned into his brain, and not in a good way.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Not mine, but they could be, for the low, low price of $19.95. and if I order now, they'll send me not just one, but two authentic Winchester brothers. And if I order in the next five minutes, they'll throw in a broken-down Angel for free.

* * *

><p>After receiving a thorough once over from Hawkeye, the medic had signed off on Dean's physical state, labeling him okey-dokey and ready for active duty. He'd <em>actually<em> written down 'okey-dokey' in his charts – that Hawkeye was about 13 cards shy of a full deck and goofy as fuck, so of course Dean kinda liked the guy.

Liking the people in the Angels of Mercy Crisis Center seemed to be a trend. When Dean left Hawkeye's office, he didn't see James around anywhere, so he approached the front desk in search of information and found Ms. Eunice – an angel in her own right – working as a volunteer at the front desk, which, as it turned out, was a treasure trove of information. He batted his eyes, smiled real pretty for her and the sweet ol' bird sprang into action like some fancy hotel concierge, giving him a local map as well as a brochure for a workforce solutions company, in case he should be in need of such services.

"And here's a list, sweetheart, of all the hotels and motels in the area. The ones highlighted in blue there are extended stay; I assume that's what you're needin'."

Dean leaned over the counter to glance sideways at the sheet where she was scribbling out notes.

"Now these two here, you'll want to avoid 'em. You're better off just stayin' here than holin' up in a place like that. Least here you've got a clean cot and you don't have to worry about no one makin' off with your kit whilst you're sleepin'."

Dean nodded, trying hard to keep up with her fast talk and the light touch of drawl in her voice, and for his effort, she patted his hand, her soft, coffee-colored hands, warm and comforting against his and then offered him a homemade chocolate chip cookie. One bite into the still-warm, chocolaty goodness caused Dean to sag against the counter in ecstasy.

"Wouldn't it be better," he asked, giving her a slow, flirty wink, "if I just go home with you? I could help you eat up all those cookies."

She laughed at that; a deep, rolling sound that echoed through the lobby area and tickled his eardrums pleasantly; enough so that he didn't hear James approach.

"Are you…hitting on the volunteers?"

Dean spun around, a large bite of cookie hanging out of his mouth. "Hell ya," he exclaimed, grinning around the mouthful, "have you tried these?"

Smirking, James shook his head in amusement which only made Dean grin all the bigger, the smile reaching his eyes for the first time in months.

"Well…" James started, becoming serious quickly, "I see you've got your bearings now; got an idea of where you're headed. Not quite so lost as you were last night."

"Oh. Um…yeah, I guess." Dean's tongue swept out, swiping his lips before sucking his lower lip in between his teeth, worrying it and scrambling for some way to respond that wouldn't raise suspicion.

"That's good," James said with a nod. "That's real good."

There was a long awkward pause in which the two men stood not really looking at and yet completely focused on each other; James shifting uncomfortably, looking as if he had something important to say and no way to say it, and Dean, chewing his lip, silently begging for James to remember.

"Anyway," James broke the silence, "I have an appointment shortly, so, if I happen to see you later…cool, but if not, I just wanted to say it was um…it was good meeting you, Dean. And I hope everything works out for you."

"Yeah. You too. Good meeting you too."

With only a moment's hesitation, James turned and strode away, walking down the dim lit hallway lined with a handful of offices and leaving Dean once again to wonder what had just happened. Over the years Dean had never quite gotten used to the awkwardness and lack of personal boundaries between him and Cas, so it came as a bit of a surprise now, for James to be the one to quickly create space between them. Dean knew one thing for certain, though. He wasn't ready to let the man – the Angel – walk away again.

Gathering up the papers, Dean waved them and gave Ms. Eunice a quick smile, "Thank ya, sweetheart," and then trotted to catch up with James.

"Wait up a second," he called, quickly closing the gap, stepping up and falling into stride with the other man. He put a hand out to stop their progress and James opened his mouth to argue. "Look, I know you're busy," Dean interrupted, "I just wanted…I've got this brother and he…he's in the hospital here. That's why I looked so messed up last night; cuz of my brother. I'm gonna go see him tonight and I just thought…maybe afterwards, I could, you know…buy you a beer or something. Say thanks."

The small, crooked smile on James revealed his embarrassment and he tried to kindly refuse, saying, "You don't have to thank me, it's kind of my job."

"No, right. But it had to be pretty awkward, me showing up on your doorstep like that. You didn't have to help me, but you did and apparently, I really needed that last night. You're like an Angel watchin' over me or something."

When James pulled a face of discomfort, Dean was quick to add, "but a real fierce, like…" he made a fist and flexed his arm, smirking out the side of his mouth, "manly Angel," and then laughed.

James, laughed too, "Yeah. Okay, whatever. Just…I'll be here…workin' late. Stop by; the front desk will buzz you in."

"Okay, man. I'll catch you later then; say eightish."

"As long as you understand that I don't put out on the first date," James said, smiling broadly with a humorous glint in his eye when he saw the brief look of panic cross Dean's face. "I'm just not that kind of girl."

As understanding sank home, a slow, ornery smile stretched across Dean's face, and lit up his eyes with unadulterated glee. "I thought you said I wasn't your type."

* * *

><p>Dean waited quietly in the sitting area of the main lobby; perched on the edge of his seat and waiting to hear whether he'd be allowed back to see Sam. There were very strict guidelines in place for visitors. First, he'd had to wait all day until the one and only visiting hour was open and then he'd had to submit to what was basically a strip search, relieving him of all his possessions, which hadn't amounted to much, since he'd already stashed his Colt in the lockbox secured inside the Coronet. He'd signed in at the front desk and had been instructed that the visitation – should he be granted one – would not only be monitored, but personally supervised, for his protection as well as that of the patient, of course. The idea that these people could protect Sam more than Dean could was laughable, but he'd kept his mouth shut and played the game according to their rules because he <em>needed<em> to see his brother; needed to tell him the news.

"Mr. Singer?"

Dean's head popped up at the name – the alias he'd been using nearly consistently since Bobby's passing – and he bounced to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Can I see him?"

The doctor, a man in his mid-forties, stepped into the sitting area carrying a chart bearing Sam's name.

"Let's have a seat," he said, directing Dean back to his chair, where Dean did all but collapse, feeling his hopes scatter in the wind. "Sam – your brother has had a pretty rough day."

"What happened?" Dean asked quickly, surging forward in his chair with panic.

The doctor raised his hand to settle Dean's fears, "He's alright. He was experiencing some pretty strong hallucinations this afternoon and we had to administer a light sedative, but he's handling it well and has settled down now. I'm not sure, however, that your visit will be for the best this evening. I only want what's in Sam's best interest and I know you feel the same way."

Dean couldn't argue with that logic, dammit, no matter how much he wanted to, but it was so important that he see him, tell him what had happened.

"I just need five minutes, Doc, just five minutes. I just want him to know that I'm here. He'll get better faster if –"

"Mr. Singer –"

"Dean," he corrected.

"Okay then, Dean. You need to understand that this idea you have of Sam getting better…your brother is showing all the classic signs of Schizophrenia. We'll know more tomorrow after we're able to run a few more tests."

"What about medication?"

"Yes, there is medication and under normal circumstances, a patient's symptoms can improve, but Sam's situation is a bit more difficult. He's showing signs of not just one type of Schizophrenia, but two sometimes three types all within a span of an hour."

Dean could feel his chest tightening, like the rings of a barrel, encircling his ribs and restricting his breathing, as true fear set in.

"What does that even mean?"

The doctor reached out and put a steadying hand on Dean's forearm and spoke in a slow, careful tone as if he was soothing a wild animal, "It means that your brother is a very sick young man and as much as you want it to, this is never going to go away. Schizophrenia is a life-long illness. Medication or no, he will always have symptoms and it may be that long-term hospitalization is what's best for him."

Dean shook his head rigidly in denial, and with his voice buried deep in his chest, he choked out, "I'm what's best for him."

"Not right now, you aren't. I think it's best if –"

"He's all that I have left." Dean hated to sound so emotional and vulnerable, but there was just no getting around it, he was desperate, "Please…I just need five minutes."

The doctor wasn't completely convinced and tried once again to dissuade Dean, "Chances are he won't even be alert enough to know that you're there."

"He'll know," Dean said cautiously optimistic.

* * *

><p>Dean was escorted down the hallway and into a sparse room containing nothing more than a chest of drawers, a chair, a single bed and his brother. Every fiber in Dean's body urged him to Sam's side, but he stayed still; mindful of the doctor's request to let Sam be examined first. Clinging to the wall like a lifeline, Dean waited until the doctor and an associate were finished and then he was there in a heartbeat; sitting on the edge of the bed, his hip nudged up against Sam's.<p>

He extended one arm over the width of his brother, clasping the far wrist, while his other mirrored the action on the near side – securing Sam in this way had become second nature since his breakdown had begun. It was better to be safe than bloodied. Dean leaned down, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Sam, but not close enough to receive a head butt if Sam's initial reaction was a violent one.

"Sammy."

Dean's voice was a soft breath that ghosted up Sam's arm, raising goose bumps that chased the words up to Sam's ear and made him come awake with a shiver. Dark, unregistered eyes dragged open and stared unfocused on the ceiling, but other than the soft rise and fall of his chest, Sam didn't move. Dean rolled his thumb gently, circling the sharp bone of Sam's wrist, hoping to cue his brother to his presence without startling him. Sam startled so easily now.

"Hey there, little brother," he greeted, "Are you with me? Sammy?"

It wasn't immediate, but slowly Sam blinked, like he was coming out of a dream; long, unhurried blinks and then his eyes rolled in Dean's direction, landing on his brother sitting there. Sam looked as if he was hung over; his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes, tired and heavy, barely moving just in case he'd set off the inevitable room spin, but then Dean saw it. There at the corner of his mouth; the barest indication of uplift and then a heartbeat later, the hint recognition in Sam's eyes. Dean smiled, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and squeezed Sam's wrist gently.

"Hey bud. They been treatin' you alright in here?"

There was no verbal response from Sam, just the slow blink of his unwavering eyes, but Dean wasn't about to be discouraged by that. Instead he pressed on, knowing that his time was limited.

"I see they trimmed up the facial hair on you. Guess that means no goin' out as Grizzly Adams for Halloween, huh?"

"Mr. Singer," the doctor warned quietly of the time.

"Right," Dean said over his shoulder. "I can't stay long, Sammy. I just wanted you to know that I'm here, bud. I'm not going anywhere. And I've found a _job,_" Dean put significant emphasis on the last word, hoping Sam would catch the meaning. He leaned up, Sam's eyes following him as he came closer, and then Dean pressed a kiss to the crown of Sam's forehead, quickly whispering a word, like a prayer, into Sam's hair. When he pulled away, there was a tell-tale crinkle across Sam's brow and Dean knew without a doubt that Sam had not only heard him, but understood exactly what Dean was trying to say.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I'd love to hear from you; to know how you think I'm doing, be it good, bad or indifferent. I love talking w readers. Some of my best friends are readers! _


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Gotta hurry now. Time is ticking down to finish this before my idea is completely Kripked. :)

Disclaimer: You know the drill...yada yada, can't afford them, blah blah, not for sale, Someday, dammit! They will be mine! *shakes fist at the sky

* * *

><p>When he had left the center earlier in the afternoon, Dean had stopped at one of the motels Ms. Eunice had suggested, gotten himself a room and had cleaned up before going to see Sam. Afterwards he'd gone back to the room to scrub his face clean of all the tension and worry that had etched itself into his skin during his visit with Sam.<p>

So it was nearly nine o'clock by the time Dean made it back to the center and he was slightly worried that James would have given him up as a lost cause and gone home for the night. But James was still there; plugging away in the office he shared with three other part-time counselors, bent over and writing into a leather-bound book.

Dean knocked once on the door frame, greeted him with a, 'ready for that beer now?' and then slid into a chair on the other side of James's desk.

"Yeah," James answered, "let me finish up this one thing and then I am _definitely_ ready to call it quits for the day."

"What are you doing, exactly?" Dean asked, motioning with his chin at what looked like a larger version of his own journal; dark brown leather, worn and frayed around the edges from serious daily use.

James looked up then, and saw that Dean was looking curiously at his ledger. "Just finishing up my notes from today. I have to keep a detailed log of everyone I meet with."

"Do they require you do it by hand or are you allergic to computers?"

James shrugged nonchalantly at Dean's teasing. "I guess certain skill sets never came back to me after my…accident."

"Really?"

"Yep," James closed the ledger, shelving it behind his left shoulder and placing the pen neatly inside the drawer of the desk. When he was satisfied that the shared desk was cleared for the next person, he rose from the desk and grabbed up the jacket he'd worn in that morning.

"I don't drive either," he added as an afterthought, "so I hope you've got transportation."

"I got wheels, man, don't you worry."

They left the building shoulder to shoulder with a bang of the double doors, exploding into the cool, moist air of early spring. The sidewalk and street were glossy with the light wash of rain that had come while Dean had been waiting in the hospital to see Sam, and the whole outside smelled fresh and clean.

"Alright, so where to?" Dean asked.

"Um…there's a place up the road-a-ways that has a menu," James offered, jogging down the steps of the center. "I've got a craving for a cheese burger like you wouldn't believe."

An image flashed in Dean's mind of a rumpled Angel in a trench coat with a fast food bag in his lap and a mouth full of Biggerson's Big Cheese. It had been exasperating at the time; the Angel all but incapacitated because of his vessel's need for red meat. _'How many is that?' 'Lost count. It's in the low hundreds.'_ Looking back though, Dean could see the humor in that situation.

"_T__his_ is _your_ car?"

It wasn't the words that shook Dean from his memories, it was the tone in which the words were said; mocking and disbelieving.

"Yeah," Dean defended, "what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, I guess. Just…it doesn't look like your kind of car."

"Oh really? You don't even _know_ me. How could you know what my kind of car _is_?"

"I know that it's not a station wagon. Jeez this thing is ugly."

"Is not," Dean groused. He ran a soothing hand over the nose of car. "This is a completely restored classic. It's got a 360 4 barrel engine and automatic transmission and –"

"It's baby vomit green."

"But it's a Woody and Woodys were cool."

"_Were_. Were cool. I don't know, man, I just don't see you driving this. You seem more like a GM guy to me, and definitely not _green_."

"Okay, well…there's some truth in that, but the green brings out my eyes," Dean pouted.

"What are you, a girl? Are we gonna stand around all night debating this and giving this ugly thing a name? Or are we going, cuz man…I'm hungry."

Dean stomped around to the driver's side, yanked the door open, and muttered, "S'not ugly," throwing himself into the olive green captain's seat.

* * *

><p>The bar was a decent enough place; light, friendly atmosphere, good music, good people. And James had been right; the menu was small, but the food wasn't half bad. They'd ordered cheese burgers – Dean's of course with bacon – a basket of hand breaded onion rings and a pitcher of beer; all of which was gone. The pretty, young waitress – and Dean wasn't looking, dammit – who was waiting their table had returned with a second pitcher. Giving them a show and angling for a tip, she leaned deep over the table to place the pitcher in front of them. Dean was surprised, when James slipped the girl a couple extra dollars, until he saw the look of pity in the man's eyes.<p>

"I'd rather she get the money here than go out and try get it through other means."

Dean nodded, citing 'Daddy issues' to which James quickly agreed.

They nursed their beers; both men quietly scanning the room and watching the other patrons. It was something that Dean was accustomed to doing: scouting the room, making sure everything was kosher. They didn't need any nasty surprises. But it was a little odd seeing James subconsciously mirroring his actions, especially since it reminded him so much of Sammy.

As if on cue, James threw back the remainder of his beer, smacking it hard against the table top. "How about a game of pool," he offered.

"You play?"

"Not well," James shrugged.

They claimed an empty pool table and while James racked up the balls, Dean selected a cue and drained the last of his beer, flagging down their waitress for yet another pitcher. He leaned in low over the table, lined up the break and with a sharp crack, the balls scattered, the three-ball sliding down the long rail and dropping into the corner pocket.

They struck up an easy give and take, moving around the table and taking their shots. Because they were only playing for fun, Dean took it easy on James. That was until James back cut the six into the side, followed immediately by banking the eight into the corner for the win. Sneaky little son of a bitch lied; he did play pool.

Dean gathered the balls from the return and racked them up again.

"This time, we play for real. No more of this holdin' back shit."

"Touché"

James lined up behind the cue ball, cast a smirk in Dean's direction and sent the racked balls chasing each other across the table, dropping not one, but three and then commenced to run out the remaining balls. He didn't stop until the eight-ball teetered slowly into the side pocket, and then he looked up to find Dean standing looking sour with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his mouth pursed and brow furled in a heavy frown.

"Aren't you glad we didn't play for money?" James asked.

Dean's appearance sagged into exasperation, but then he chuckled. "Yeah, I am. One more game?"

"I'll even let you break."

* * *

><p>James tilted the pitcher upside down above his mug, eyeing the last few drops as they trickled down and fell into his beer. He'd single-handedly put down two pitchers on his own, not counting the three before that that he had shared with Dean and yet, he didn't seem to be more than a little loosened up. Dean, however, was happily comfortable; stretched out in a booth, his back against the wall and his legs kicked up along the bench seat. He cracked a peanut from its shell, tossed it up into the air and attempted to catch it in his mouth. He failed miserably and was forced to try again; and again. James reached over the table and snatched a few of the dry-roasted peanuts for himself.<p>

"I meant to ask you earlier," James said, his voice muffled by his mouthful, "Your brother. You said he was in the hospital. Is he going to be alright?"

Dean's head lolled to the side to look at James, his face instantly heating with anger. Sitting before him was the guy responsible for his brother's current situation, and Dean was suddenly flooded with feelings of betrayal and animosity. Why was he sitting here with this 'man'? Why had he allowed himself to forget that Cas was the reason Sam's wall had crumbled in the first place, the reason the Leviathans had been unleashed on the world, the reason they'd lost Bobby. The relief he'd felt at finding the Angel alive, at finding that he wasn't alone in this; all of it faded beneath a wash of heart-pounding hostility.

"Dean?" There was a long, pregnant pause filled with anxiety and then, "Is everything okay?"

"No. It's not okay," Dean bit out, his jaw clenched in an attempt to reel in the rage burning in his chest and throat, but when he dragged hard eyes up to glare at the Angel, he was met with a look of true concern. James was leaning in across the table, resting heavily on his elbows; his face awash with empathy and worry. The realization set into Dean rather quickly: this wasn't Cas – not really. James had no recollection of what had happened prior to his 'accident' as he was calling it. He couldn't remember his actions from before and wouldn't be able to connect those actions to the events they had affected. There was just no way Dean could hold him accountable for those actions even if his entire being was calling out for retribution. He could do nothing but sag back and bang his head solidly against the wall, his anger draining away, leaving him tired and spent.

"He's at University Hospital?" James asked, "They do good work there."

"No, he's at MHI."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Well…they're really good there too."

"You know the place?" Dean asked, sneaking a glance out the corner of his eye.

"I've been there, actually…as a patient."

Dean straightened up and turned in the booth to look James head on, mirroring the man's posture by leaning on the table.

"I'm just trying to wrap my head around this," Dean started, looking confused. His brow was furled over heavy eyes and his lips pursed, leaving twin creases over the top of his mouth. "So you have this _accident_ and you…drown?"

James nodded.

"But some random guy finds you and gets you to a hospital where you lie in a coma for however long. And when you wake up, you do what? Rehab yourself back into society at the nut shack?"

"There's nothing wrong with seeking a little help when you're in need, and I _was_ in need. Imagine waking up in a hospital and not knowing anything about yourself. I couldn't have even told you what color my hair was," James ran a rough hand through his already tousled locks, "or what year it was or even who was President. It sucked in the worst way imaginable – to have my entire life stripped away like that. It left me empty, a shell of the person I was before."

"But you don't remember that person…"

"No. I do not."

James sat back in the bench, rested his arm along the seat back and picked at a worn, frayed seam. "I guess," he continued without looking up from where his fingers picked and pulled at the material, "I guess in the scheme of things, it doesn't really matter who I was before. I'm not that person –"

"Doesn't matter?" Dean's voice was, shrill and loud, even surrounded by the steady hum of music and conversation in the bar. He leaned further into the table, lowering his voice to a dangerous level that immediately caught James's attention, "How can it not matter? You could have _family_ out there, man. And friends who care about you, _depend_ on you, but instead you're here living this…other life. You could be someone important."

"I can see this is upsetting you." James shook his head and raised a hand to slow the argument poised on Dean's lips. "Dean, I don't expect you to understand. I barely understand myself, but this…" he ran his two hands in front of his torso, "this is what I woke up to: a body with no identity. And believe me, I've tried like Hell since, to find out who I was, where I'd come from, anything at all, but there were no answers for me; only more questions. So many questions, it was enough to make a person go mad. Add to that this enormous sense of loss that I felt…it was incapacitating. Can you understand what that would feel like, to lose everything and everyone? To lose your purpose in life and have no effective way of coping with it?"

Dean looked down into the beer in front of him, gripped the glass with two hands and stared hard at the pale gold, coming to grips with just how much he understood that feeling. Dean too, felt like he'd lost his identity, his purpose. He'd lost everyone. He'd lost everything; no car, no Bobby's house, no reason to keep up the fight. And okay, if he was really being honest, the only reason he was still 'in the game' at all was because he couldn't bear to leave his brother alone, and now Sam was gone too. Dean dropped his head into his hand, scrubbing the meat of his palm against his brow, and willing the knot that was working its way up from his gut and into his throat to go the fuck away.

"Yeah," Dean said, quiet voice filled up with emotion. He cleared his throat, and then slid out of the booth.

"I gotta hit the head."

Dean paused, tapping the pads of his fingers against the tabletop, and when James looked up at him expectantly, he continued, saying, "I do understand…probably better than you know."


	7. Chapter 7

Dean stepped away from the urinal, tugging his zipper into place, and turned to the sink. He swayed a bit because of the quick movement and had to latch onto the porcelain sink to steady himself, chuckling because, _really_, when was the last time he'd actually _felt_ the light-headed effects of just plain ole beer. Dean opened the tap and let the water run until it was good a hot. Then he clumsily tugged the bandages from his hands and set about washing them, hissing instinctively when the blistering water hit his knuckles. He passed his thumb over his right hand, smearing the ointment clear, and then he stopped.

"What the Hell?"

He dipped both hands into the running water again, rinsed them, and shook them dry. Starring down at his hands, Dean gaped in disbelief. Flexing his hands, he felt the tight pull of skin over his knuckles – newly repaired, unblemished skin. He looked up into the mirror, gripped the edge of the sink for support and released a long shaky breath over pursed lips. _Cas. _Had James done this? Had he healed him?

Dean reached blindly up to the shoulder that had once been marred by the saving grace hand print permanently seared into his skin. Or at least he thought it had been permanent, until _After_, when Dean discovered that it wasn't. After Lucifer, in Sam's body, had beat Dean nearly to death. After Sammy had taken the dive. After Dean had made that _stupid_ promise to leave the life and make a fresh start. After, he had peeled the bloody clothes from his body and washed it all away in the warm spray of a shower. Only then had he realized the scar was gone, and that realization had triggered a rush of emotion. He felt the loss of Sam and everyone and everything grab ahold of him and choke the air from his lungs. Dean had slumped to the floor of the tub then and wept like a child until the water ran cold. Afterwards he had pulled himself up, dressed, and gone to Lisa.

Dean wasn't blind to how his current situation mirrored the circumstances of two years before. Sam, Bobby and Cas; all gone to him. He was alone. Again.

Except that he wasn't.

Because Cas was right out there, sitting in a booth, guzzling another beer as if it were air and not having a clue who Dean was or who _he_ really was.

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, feeling a dull headache building beneath the beer haze. _'Now we figure what we do next.'_ Bobby's voice cut into his thoughts, soft and quiet and hitting Dean so hard, he gasped for breath. _'I said: What do we do next, Dean?'_

"Right."

Looking into the bleary eyes of his reflection, Dean smacked his palm flat against the wall that surrounded the mirror, pushing himself away from the sink.

"Right," he repeated, decidedly. Dean left the restroom, walked quickly through the bar. He sat down hard, startling James who sloshed his beer over the rim of his glass and down the front of him.

"Dude!" James snatched up a handful of cocktail napkins and blotted at his wet shirt.

"We gotta talk. There-there's, uh…there's something I gotta ask you."

* * *

><p>"Absolutely not." James leaned out of the passenger side window, to stare up from the street at the darkened psychiatric hospital. He'd let Dean pull him out of the bar without so much as an argument and they'd driven across town without a word between them, but now stopped here in front of MHI, an explanation was no longer necessary. James seemed to know instinctually what Dean had in mind, and yet, for some reason wasn't putting up too much of a fight, "No way. You're not dragging me in there in the middle of the night."<p>

"Oh, come _on_," Dean groaned, "you sound like my brother. He doesn't know how to have any fun either."

"Fun? What part of this is fun?"

"The part where we get in there without getting caught," Dean grinned crookedly.

"How _exactly_ do you think we're gonna get in there? What're you gonna do, pretend you need psychiatric help? Cuz, I'm pretty sure that's not pretending."

"We're gonna use the back door."

Dean dropped the Coronet into gear and pulled away from the curb, making an immediate right up the drive that led to the loading area of the hospital. At this time of night, Dean figured that short-staffed offered them a better opportunity of getting in unseen. He parked the car out of sight of the two security camera and climbed out from behind the wheel. James, however, wasn't as keen to follow.

Dean leaned in through the open driver's side window. "Come on," Dean encouraged, "it'll be a piece of cake."

"You say that like you've done this before."

"No, never had to break _in__to_ a psyche ward before. Out once, but never in. They're pretty much the same."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," James whispered harshly, as he very reluctantly climbed out of the car; the quiet click of the car door closing, echoed through the darkness.

Moving skillfully quiet and staying trim to the dark shadows, they approached the building and the steel back door. Through the darkness, Dean could see James's eyes, glowing white in the moonlight and wide with panic and disbelief. Dean reached out and grasped James's forearm, squeezing firmly. "You're not gonna freak out on me, are ya?"

"I'm not gonna make any promises." The answer earned him a brilliant smile from Dean to which James could only roll his eyes in response. Dean tried to tone down his exuberance, but getting these kinds of reactions was just way too much fun and James could see that, he was sure, because a second later, James narrowed his eyes and asked, "Okay, smartass, how the Hell are you gonna break your way in? That's a key card reader and you –"

Dean reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a key card, and waved it tauntingly. "I swiped it off the orderly today when he pushed past me into my brother's room."

"Won't he miss that?"

"He already does. I saw him searching for it before I left and getting his ass chewed by the high-strung little thing at the nurses' station. They've probably been so busy hunting down the missing card, that…" Dean swiped the card through the reader and the little machine flashed green before releasing the lock, "they haven't deactivated this one yet." He snapped his fingers and tossed James a wink, "Easy as pie."

Checking the hallway first, Dean slipped in the door, reached back out and snagged James by the jacket and towed him inside as well.

"I don't feel good about this, Dean," James whispered over Dean's shoulder. They were walking down a side hall, making their way along the back route to Sam's room and James was riding so close behind, that he was practically on top of the hunter, crowding into Dean's space. _Just like old times_, Dean thought.

"Don't wuss out on me now, man. We're almost –"

Dean squeaked as he was yanked out of the hall and into the shallow office doorway. There James pinned him to the wall with his forearm, a finger held to his own lips entreating silence, and a stern look cutting off any argument that Dean might have had. They waited, unmoving and silent until James sagged in relief.

"What was that?" Dean demanded, pushing James away from him.

"That was _me_ saving your ass…again. Can't you hear the two guys coming down the far hall?"

"No, and what do you mean, '_Again_'?"

"Don't act so offended. I know we just met, but I can already tell that you get into more trouble than you get out of. I'm sure this won't be the last time."

"Don't…" Dean pointed an accusing finger at James, "I'm not…" but his argument faltered beneath James's logic. "Just…come on."

They continued down the hall, using the stolen key card to enter the wing on which Sam's room was located. The wing was quiet and the hallway, dim; whole sections of the overheard light having been cut off to better provide the darkness for sleeping. Dean made a beeline for Sam's room and pulled a leather case from his back pocket.

"What is that?"

Dean assessed the lock quickly and then pulled a half diamond pick and a torsion wrench from the case, waved them in answer to James and then set to work picking the pin and tumbler. With a satisfying click, the door sprung open and Dean and James piled in before anyone could happen upon them.

"Sammy," Dean crossed to the far side of the bed, pinned his brother's hands to his chest, and then lightly tapped the younger man's cheek. "Wakeup, Sammy. Look, I brought a visitor. Sammy?"

At Dean's quiet urging, Sam roused from his chemically aided sleep, reacting slowly to the presence leaning into him.

"Hey there, sleepy head," Dean ran a hand briskly up and down Sam's arm, trying to rub the sleep out of his system, and it seemed to work. Sam took a deep, cleansing breath and met Dean's eyes…and then immediately cringed.

"You promised," he whimpered, pulling in on himself and wrapping his long arms around his body; shielding his eyes from the sight of Dean sitting there beside him on the bed.

"Promised what, Sam?" Dean asked, confused. He tugged gently on Sam's arms, peeling his hands away from his face, "What did I promise?"

Sam sealed his eyes shut, turning his face away from his brother. "You promised," Sam accused, choking on a sob, "promised not to wear '_him_' anymore."

It didn't take long for the words to sink in; Dean had heard them enough in the last week or better to know what they meant. When Sam looked at him, he didn't see Dean; wasn't seeing brother or love or safety, he was seeing Lucifer, and not just Lucifer, but Lucifer wearing Dean as a suit.

It was the worst possible nightmare; to be tormented by the one person you hold above all others. Dean knew first hand, having been there, done that. During his forty year tour in Hell, Alastair had taken particular pleasure in using Sam's visage as psychological torture. Alastair had come up behind Dean, strung up on the rack, and whispering into his ear using Sam's voice, made Dean promises of peace and rest and togetherness. Wearing Sam's likeness, he had leaned into Dean, wrapping arms and hands that felt warm and alive around Dean's bare and bloodied chest; looking and smelling and feeling so much like Sam that Dean had begged and pleaded for him to stop, and cried for more.

Even now, Dean could still feel it; could still hear Alastair stealing Sam's voice, _"Do you love me, Dean?"_

"_Yes,"_ Dean had sobbed, not daring to open his eyes to see the truth before him as Alastair circled around to stand in front of him. He hadn't needed to see to know that Alastair was sneering in delight at Dean's admission, _"Yes."_

"_Then let me help you. I can make this all go away, if you'll just consent."_

"No." Dean's grip tightened around Sam's wrists when his brother made to pull out of his grasp. "Please Sammy, don't fight me. Listen. Listen." Making a feeble attempt to secure Sam's arms, Dean clapped a hand over Sam's eyes, reducing the sensory overload, and just as a wild animal is soothed by the action, Sam was too; settling quietly into the mattress.

"Listen to my voice. I know things are too far gone for you to trust what you see, but I need you to _hear_ me and know that I'm _not him. _Do you understand? It's just me, Sammy. I'm all Dean and no one else, okay?"

When Dean felt Sam calm beneath his hands, he nudged his shoulder up to wipe the sweat from his own brow and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Dean, this is a very bad idea."

Sam was immediately startled by the additional voice, his eyes snapping open. He locked onto James's gravelly tenor, and turned wild, terrified eyes on him and then back to Dean. But a moment later, the fear dissipated; the only thing left was blind fury.

"How are you doing that?" Sam demanded, sounding as angry as Dean had heard him in ages. Before either Dean or James knew what was happening, Sam was up and out of the bed, crowding Dean into the wall with a large hand wrapped around Dean's throat. Dean grabbed ahold of Sam's forearm, hanging on, but not putting up enough of a struggle to deter Sam.

"Sammy, I'm not –"

"You can't do that!" Sam bellowed, cutting Dean off with both his voice and the thumb he pressed further into his brother's windpipe. "You can't change the rules."

He pulled Dean away from the wall, only to slam him back into it. Hard.

"People and demons; yes, but you can't taunt me with Angels."

And again.

"You can't!"

And again. Dean's head smacking against the wall with a resounding crack.

"You _said_ you couldn't."

The strength went out of Dean's legs and had Sam not been holding him up, he might have slumped to the floor.

"So, why is _he_ here?"

"Stop," James commanded with a strangely calm, even voice.

Sam glanced down at the hand that closed around his elbow and then back up at the man who was wedging himself in between the brothers.

"That's enough, Sam."


	8. Chapter 8

AN: hellatus SUCKS! But at least it affords me the time to get this finished up.

Disclaimer: _Play dumb. When the authorities ask you why you're breaking into the Mental Health Institute to steal Sam, you play dumb._

* * *

><p>"<em>You could have family out there, man. And friends who care about you, depend on you, but instead you're here living this…other life. You could be someone important."<em>

It wasn't as though the thought had never occurred to him. Of course it had occurred to him, only a few thousand times a day had it occured to him. In fact, it had been his primary thought since waking up in University Hospital all those months ago – _'what if they need me?' _The thought had eaten at him, torn him apart and very quickly had sent him over the edge.

James didn't remember the incident that had seen him moved to MHI, but he'd been told about it. One morning, a few days after he'd awoken from his coma, a nurse had walked in to discover that he had transformed his room into something out of A Beautiful Mind. Using the dry erase markers that had been left on the in-room white board, he had marked every available surface with strange, unrecognizable symbols and pictographs of every size and shape, and he himself had been sitting naked in the middle of that whacked out art project, covered in the same bizarre markings, muttering in an unknown tongue, and completely unresponsive to the nurse's attempts to help him back into bed.

The nurse had immediately paged for assistance and called the doctor to arrange for a psych consult. What had started out as a careful intervention, quickly skyrocketed into a 3 hour standoff in which two of the larger male nurses from the Department of Psychology were injured; one of them had even been sent up to radiology for x-rays after he'd been thrown like a ragdoll across the room. In the end, it had taken several men to hold him down so that he could be restrained and sedated. After that, the consult hadn't been needed. He had been moved immediately to MHI and placed under surveillance for 'his own' protection and there he had remained for the better part of a month.

He had 'woken' in early December. It had been as though someone had flipped a switch and he had gone from being locked in a catatonic, self-imposed prison of his mind to becoming fully conscious of an entirely different environment than he had left at University, and having no memory what-so-ever of how he'd gotten from one place to another and why? Over the course of a week he was seen by several doctors, tested extensively and finally deemed fit enough to be taken out of the secured ward and released into the institution's general population with access to come and go from his room. He had attended counseling as prescribed and had begun courses to integrate him back into the working society and he'd found himself a new name: James Smith. When his doctor had inquired as to why he'd chosen that particular name, James had remarked that the name Jimmy had been floating around in his head for a week, but that he hadn't particularly felt like a Jimmy and so he'd gone w/ James.

His health had progressed, both physically and mentally and over the course of an additional month, his doctor had become so impressed with James's improvements that he had arranged for a volunteer work program outside of the institution.

The Angels of Mercy Crisis Center had been a warm and inviting place, and James had fallen in with its people easily, making a place for himself there. So much so, that when he had been discharged from MHI in January, he had gone to live at the center for a short while. The nice thing about the center had been that it offered peer to peer counseling, and James had been quick to jump on a volunteer position when it had opened up.

Life seemed to change rather rapidly for James at that point. He had gone from a volunteer to a paid employee within a month's time, which allowed him to get out from beneath the center's roof and into an apartment of his own. He had found a new focus; a purpose in helping those in need, which had gone a long way towards helping his own life make sense again, towards lessening the enormous loss that James could feel inside. But that one question always lingered: _'What if they need me?"_

Dean slammed heavily into the booth seat, jolting James from his thoughts and making him fumble for the slick glass as it slipped and his beer slopped out over the edge and down the front of him. Fresh from the tap, the beer was cold and it nearly stole his breath as he choked out: "Dude!" He tucked a few napkins down the open V of his shirt and dabbed at the moisture there, scowling and mumbling under his breath.

"We gotta talk. There-there's, uh…" Dean stuttered for a moment, swallowed and found his voice again, "there's something I gotta ask you."

Sitting back further into the booth to better observe the new mood Dean was wearing, James tossed the damp napkins aside, and eyed Dean guardedly, "Is this gonna require a stronger drink?"

Dean didn't answer. He just sat on his side of the booth, his mouth twisted, his brow drawn heavily over his lowered eyes and looking as though he was really putting too much thought into the answer.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed deep. He raised uncertain eyes up to meet James's and then quickly looked away, his mouth quirking up in an uneasy half-smile. "I'm not trying to be all emo about this," he said, chuckling nervously, "but my brother…he was pretty much the only thing I had. And…now I don't." Dean straightened himself up in the seat, meeting James's eyes again, this time straight on and unwavering. "It's like you said. I lost my purpose," he shook his head slowly, adding, "and I have no way of coping with it."

James chewed that statement over, surprised by the honest sentiment and how similar it was to how he, himself had felt. And wasn't this what he did; help people?

"What can I do?"

"Go with me to see my brother?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Oh…okay. I think I can rearrange my afternoon tomorrow, if you want."

"No, not tomorrow…now."

"What?" James laughed, "We can't go right now. It's," he looked down at his watch, squinting beneath the dim bar lights to read the watch face, "it's 1.30 in the morning. They're not gonna let you in at this hour."

A smile stretched slowly over Dean's face; a look which James wasn't ashamed to admit, gave him the chills.

"I don't plan on asking for permission."

* * *

><p><em>Play dumb. When the authorities ask you why you're breaking into the Mental Health Institute, you play dumb.<em> That was the thought running though James's head as he climbed out of Dean's baby-puke green Coronet, and yeah…like that wasn't the most obviously 'doesn't belong here' sign they could possibly drive to the scene of a crime. He gathered what little bit of courage he had left and followed after Dean into the dark. Why he had agreed to this crazy, screwed up scheme, was beyond him. His intention had been to _help_ Dean, not help him into a room beside his brother, but for James, it just seemed to be out of his control to say 'no' to the man.

* * *

><p>Dean <em>belonged<em> in a room beside his brother. The man was insane, that's all there was to it. He had stolen a key card and they were _actually_ breaking into a mental health institute. Who the Hell does that? Crazy people, that's who. And even though multiple warning bells were sounding in James's head, they didn't deter him from following Dean on his insane mission. Moving quickly down the hallway, James stayed hot on Dean's heels for fear of being the straggler that got them caught. They fell into step, like a well-choreographed dance, Dean leading and James the willing partner and why did this feel so natural?

James shook off the sense of familiarity and whispered harshly over Dean's shoulder, "I don't feel good about this, Dean." But as soon as he'd said it, James heard something. He stilled just long enough to listen and pinpoint the sound – there…footsteps. Two people – in the next hall – coming in their direction and coming fast. James looked around quickly for a place to duck into, finding a doorway that was barely deep enough to hide one of them, but it would have to work.

"Don't wuss out on me now, man. We're almost –"

James snatched Dean mid-sentence; one hand wrapped over Dean's mouth to quiet any exclamation that might leave the man's mouth involuntarily. He pulled Dean into the shallow doorway, bracing him with a forearm and signaling for Dean's silence, and then they waited. For several long minutes, James held Dean in place, listening for the men; two institution employees who were returning to their stations and preparing for the 2.00 am shift change. The men talked quietly and then turned a corner at the far end of the hallway, and walked away from where Dean and James were hidden.

James could feel Dean boring holes into him with his glare, but it wasn't until James sighed with relief that Dean pushed him away; hard.

"What was that?" he demanded.

"That was _me_ saving your ass…again."

* * *

><p>Again? Where <em>had<em> 'again' come from, James wondered. He'd only just met Dean. There had been no prior situations which would necessitate an 'again'. And yet, James had such an overwhelming sense of déjà vu that the words had slipped from his lips as if this were any other Sunday. And yet again, the argument that had ensued, felt…off – wrong – James had given Dean logical, sensible reasons for his use of 'again', but he was aware that they weren't his real reasons. It had just seemed…right. James tried to shake off the weird, unsettling sense of kinship he felt for Dean and focus on the problem at hand; getting into Dean's brother's room.

Dean was squatted down in front of the door and he slid first one piece of the pick set into the lock and then the other. James looked over his shoulder curiously, watching the precision with which Dean seemed to know exactly where to press the pin and roll the tumbler, and then with a flash of tongue and teeth and a wrinkle above his nose, the door sprung open as if by magic, the slide and click of the lock echoing in James's ear along with another sound; footsteps again. So much for this place being quiet at night. James turned his head, closed his eyes and listened. A woman – probably a nurse if the squeak of her well-worn shoes were anything to go by – moving at a quick pace away from the nurse's station and away from them. They were safe for now, but Dean was cutting things entirely too close for James's comfort and he asked himself _again_ why he'd blindly followed Dean into this predicament.

Dean pulled himself up from the ground with a low groan and James quickly grabbed ahold of his jacket and pushed him stumbling over the threshold into the room before that nurse changed her mind and circled back around on them. James followed behind, turned, and giving the hallway one last listen, closed the door silently.

"Sammy." Dean spoke the name with such reverence that it was like a prayer, and James felt it as much as Dean. When he turned around, the reality of the situation came rushing in on him. The stark room, the medicinally clean scent, Dean's brother – _Sammy_ – _baby brother_ – lying prone on a minimally dressed bed; it was all so familiar and overwhelming that James found himself pressed up against the closed door, his breathing labored and his head spinning.

To see the over-grown giant of a little brother lying so still in an institution bed created such an unexpectedly intense sense of responsibility; a desire to protect, that James was completely beside himself. He reached blindly for Sam, feeling the first tear well and fall, trickling over and down the sharp angle of his cheek.

Sam started to fight against Dean's hold, struggling so hard to pull free from his brother's hands that Dean was forced to put his weight into holding him still. And James moved. Not to lend aid to Dean, but to defend Sam. He was at Sam's side in the blink of an eye and about to force Dean off, when Sam stilled; blinded by the shield of Dean's hand, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

James's head fell to the side, taking in his first real look at the now serene face, and James heart thrummed loudly to the beat of 'watch out for Sammy'. It was a small miracle to see Sam this way; so quiet and calm that his youthful beauty still shone through all the torment. James caught himself stretching out to touch Sam's face, to comb the long, unruly hair back into place the way Sam should wear it, to feel the warmth of Sam's skin and know he was real and alive and…James stumbled backwards a step, reeling in confusion.

"Dean, this is a very bad idea," James rasped out; his voice completely choked off by a wave of emotion and belonging that couldn't possibly belong to him.

Sam's eyes snapped open, his terror stricken eyes finding James and locking on with full recognition. James felt more than saw the shudder that passed over Sam, his mouth moving and trembling with unspoken words, and then it happened so fast, that James was caught completely off guard and in shock.

Sam was up and out of the bed, attacking his brother; pinning Dean to the wall with one hand closed tight around the other man's throat and demanding answers. A choked off cry, words like rules and demons and angels, and the sickening crack of skull against unforgiving wall, and then James was there, pressing himself between Dean and _his_ brother.

"Stop."

He took Sam by the arm, pressing his thumb into the pressure point in the inside of Sam's elbow, and compressed the spot like pressing a button to release Sam's hand from around Dean's throat. Sam stared down at him, confusion playing strongly over his face.

"That's enough, Sam."

James reached up then and softly brushed the hair from Sam's face, his fingertips lingering over the strands of silk and the soft skin of Sam's forehead, craving that short, intimate connection.

For one brief moment, Sam leaned into the touch, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he sank like a ragdoll to the floor; James chasing him down and catching him by the shoulders and cradling Sam's head before it connected with the concrete. Behind them, Dean also slumped down the wall to the floor, gasping raggedly for breath and rubbing at his bruised throat.

"What did you do?" he rasped out.

"Nothing!" James cried in defense, "I didn't do a thing."


	9. Chapter 9

AN: I apologize for the 2 1/2 week stretch between chapters. I was fighting with my inability to stay on task. For whatever reason, this was a difficult chapter to put to paper and I need to say a important Thank You to my beta, zara-zee. She is an amazing woman; so very busy with a heavy, school schedule, a family to care for, and a big bang project of her own to work on, and yet she always finds the time to help me work through anything and everything. I'm truly blessed to have her as my beta and my friend. Love you Caz.

Disclaimer: Never have been, never will be, but I'll continue to play w/ them until someone takes them away from me.

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><p>"I didn't do anything," James repeated his promise. Leaning over Sam, who lay sprawled out on his back on the concrete floor, James ran his fingertips up the unconscious man's neck, searching out and finding a strong, steady beat beneath the pulse point. "Oh, thank God. He's still alive," James sighed in relief.<p>

"Course he is," Dean chided weakly, dragging himself across the floor to his brother's side. "Takes more than one little zap to take down a Winchester, right Sammy?" Dean patted his brother's cheek clumsily, but got no response, and then, as carefully as he could manage, Dean checked Sam's eyes…just in case. "You're out cold, aren'tcha kiddo? S'alright, I got it all under control."

"You have _what_ under control, exactly?" James's voice grew stern and his eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Reality check, Dean…he almost killed you."

"He didn't –" Dean got dizzy trying to climb to his feet and his confidence faltered. He grabbed hold of Sam – lying there completely unconscious – in an attempt to steady himself, and then shook his head and rubbed absentmindedly at his ears trying to clear the ringing noise, but that only seemed to make everything twenty times worse.

Recognizing the possibility of a concussion, James raised three fingers. "Oh really? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Dean tried to focus, really he did, but when he looked across the short space at James's fingers, his eyes seemed to have a mind of their own. His vision blurred, and the room began to spin, and as sweat began to prickle across his brow, Dean suddenly felt the need to upchuck all the peanuts and beer he'd consumed earlier that night.

"Maybe you better sit all the way down," James suggested a little more gently, snagging a garbage can from beside Sam's bed and setting it down in front of Dean.

"M'fine," Dean scoffed, his speech slurring slightly, but he let his knees slide out from beneath him anyway, slumping onto his butt on the floor next to his brother. James mirrored Dean's position, sliding in beside him, his arms crossed and resting casually atop bent knees.

"What are we doin' here, Dean?" James voice was soft and imploring. He turned his face to watch with concern as Dean tried to rein in control over the vertigo and nausea. "This isn't just about visiting your brother, I'm sure of that now, or else we'd have come during visiting hours. So what is this?"

With a groan, Dean let his eyes flutter closed and his head roll forward into his hands. "M'sorry. Goin' 'bout this all wrong," he said, and then he paused; willing the spinning world to slow in time with his steady breaths.

"You need to clue me in here, man," James said after a time, "I mean…you dragged me here for a reason, right?"

With a nearly imperceptible nod, Dean lifted his chin, returning James's troubled stare, his glazed eyes still swimming with concussion.

"Dragged you here because of this." Dean pushed the sleeve up his left arm and held out his hand, balled up into a fist; his knuckles presented for inspection.

"What?" James asked, shaking his head in confusion, "What is this?"

"My hand…it's healed. They both are."

James saw it then, even though his head continued to shake to the contrary, he did see that Dean's road-rashed knuckles were in fact healed.

"How is that even possible?" James asked. He reached out, grabbed Dean by the forearm, and pulled the hand in for closer examination. "Hmm…must not have been as bad as it looked," he rationalized, but seeing the perfect flesh where the marred skin had been, he couldn't convince himself. "No," he shook his head. "It was that bad. How can this be?" James looked at Dean, his face etched with confusion. "I don't understand." He dropped Dean's arm as if it were scalding hot and raked a hand roughly through his dark hair. "What does this mean? What do your hands have to do with you bringing me here?"

"You don't know? You have no idea? At all? I brought you here so you could help my brother."

"What?" James laughed, "You can't be serious! Look man, your brother, he's…well…to put it plainly, he's nuts, like bats in the belfry crazy. You know that right?" James looked at Dean with all the seriousness he could muster. "And fixing that's not something that either you or I can be a part of."

"Not me, no." Dean shook his head. He straightened then; pushing beyond the swimming in his head to pull himself together and look James directly in the eye. "But you…James, man…look what you did to my hands!"

James looked at him sharply. "C'mon Dean. You can't honestly believe that I…I know we had a few too many to drink tonight and you took a few too many knocks to the noggin just now, but _come on_. That's just…it's ridiculous. Your _brother_…he needs some serious help. You're not helping him with this looney toons magic healing crap."

"Then how do you explain this?" Dean waved his hands in James's face.

"I can't," James hissed, "And neither can you. But you know full well that there's no such thing as magic or miracles or whatever the Hell 'I want to believe' lifeline you're clinging to right now. There'll be a perfectly rational explanation for what happened. There always is and you and I…we're leaving. Right now. We shouldn't even be here."

There was an authoritative tone in James's voice that caused a knee-jerk reaction in Dean to 'hop to', but he swallowed down the 'yessir' and quietly replied, "I can't leave." And before James could broach an argument, he went on, "I hear what you're saying, but it doesn't matter. He's my brother and the only family I have. I won't leave him like this."

"Dean, you've done what you could; you got him here. _This_ is the best thing for him."

Dean blanched, disliking the look of sympathy that washed over James's face. He didn't want James's sympathy or his pity, he _wanted _his help. He _needed_ his help. He _needed_ Cas, but what Dean struggled with, was how to broach the subject with a man who clearly didn't remember who he was or what he was capable of doing. Quickest way to make the man go running for the hills, was to tell him that he was an Angel. Yeah, nothing crazy in that statement, at all.

"I don't expect you to understand, but Sam…he's my responsibility; has been since I was four years old, and without him…trust me when I say that I will do _everything_ in my power to make him better, and I need your help to do that."

"Okay," James said sounded frustrated, "let's pretend for one moment that you're thinking rationally. No more talk about me magically healing your hands or curing world hunger. Take _all_ that away and tell what exactly is it that you expect me to do to help your brother? I'm not a psychiatrist, Dean. Truth be told, I'm not qualified to help him; not in any way, shape or form. I work at a homeless shelter. I encourage homeless people to take steps to get back on their feet. I'm nothing more than a glorified cheerleader for cryin' outloud; that's all I am, and there's nothing either of us can do that hasn't already been done."

Dean shook his head in disagreement, but his eyes had fallen away from James's and were focused on Sam. His baby brother, who lay there so deeply asleep that his eyes were unmoving beneath eyelids dark and bruised from lack of true sleep, the soft rasp of a snore passing through his parted lips, and his long, unkempt hair falling down over his forehead in a way in which Sam hadn't worn his hair in years. Looking at him in this way, in this light, Dean could see the whispered dreams of days long gone; a brother, so young and fresh and out of the life, and Dean cursed himself for ever pulling Sam back in. If he hadn't…but what was the use of wondering? Fate was a cruel bitch. It was always going to come to this. They were always going to end up together again, living this Hell, this _destiny_ that fate had shoved up their asses – without lube, thanks a fuckin' lot – and for what? So that they could save the world and die trying? Not just once, but over and over and over, and what Dean wouldn't give to just be able to lay down and sleep right alongside his brother, forever. Sleep and never have to wake up to what lay outside those front doors. To never again have to feel the physical pain of a knife wound or a claw tear or a bite mark. To never have to deal with the heart-clenching ache in his chest every damn time he reached for his phone to call Bobby just to see what he was up to, or every time he caught himself turning their 'car of the week' towards 'home', or every time he'd look up towards the dark sky and admit that he missed his friend, saying: I wish you were here, man.

"Dean, I'm sorry, man. I really am."

Dean clenched his eyes shut, willing his ears to block out the sound of James's voice and his mind to shut off the acknowledgement that same-said friend was sitting right next to him, looking at Dean with his head tilted in question, his eyes troubled and worried, searching for the answer to a question he didn't even know. Dean swallowed hard, his jaw clenching painfully and he felt the burn of unwanted tears prickling beneath his lashes, and don't fucking cry, you big fucking girl. Just breathe. Just breathe.

"Come on; let's go." James climbed up off of the floor and offered a hand out to Dean.

"And Sam?" Dean looked up then, and when his watery green eyes found the familiar, crystalline blue eyes of an Angel. "What about Sam?"

"We get him back into bed and we leave. It'll be like we were never here, now come on." He grabbed Dean's hands and hauled him to his feet. "We've gotta get out of here before someone catches us. Help me with your brother," he motioned to Sam, still lying on the floor.

Gaining some composure, Dean wiped a hand across his face, swiping away the unshed tears and nodded, quickly moving to stand on one side of the unconscious man. They both took hold of Sam beneath his arms, and with great effort, pulled him up from the ground.

"Damn Sammy, you weigh a friggin' ton," Dean's voice was strained and grunting from the physical exertion, "You bitch at me for all my bacon cheeseburgers, but I don't think that rabbit food you're always eatin' is helping you out none either, pal. Alright," he said, adjusting his hold on his boneless baby brother, "beddy-bye time."

The metal bed squeaked and groaned beneath Sam's weight as they flopped him over, face down into the mattress. James stumbled backwards, his hand coming up to scrub worriedly over his jaw and then up until his was tugging at the front of his hairline. His eyes ticked to the side, catching a glimpse of Dean just as the man breathed out a shaky breath.

"You gonna be alright?" he asked, and Dean nodded slowly; his eyes locked onto and haunted by his brother's still form. James snapped his fingers in front of the hunter's face, "Don't go cashing out on me now, Dean. I'm gonna need you to be alert enough to get us out of here."

"I am," Dean growled, looking up from beneath lowered brows. His shoulders rolled back and his back straightened, bringing him up to full height. "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Almost there, sweet readers. Thank you to so many of you who have favorited or set this fic on alert. I appreciate those as much as the wonderful people who send me reviews. And to the Anon who was worried about me coming back to finish...fear not. I ALWAYS finish what I start. :) And leave me your name next time. I can't comfort you if I don't know who you are. *hugs AN2: There are lots of nods to some of my favorite people in this chapter. You'll know who you are when you see it.

Disclaimer: Lots of book titles in this chapter as well as a few quotes. I own none and they should all be pretty clearly marked. I do however own James, since technically he's not Castiel...yet?

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><p>Dean managed to get his act together and saw them safely out of the Institution and across town to James's apartment. James had been reluctant to let him drive considering his obvious impairment, but Dean assured James that he'd driven in worse condition and he had indeed seemed quite capable of handling the big boat of a station wagon.<p>

Dean stopped in front of James's building, slid the car into park, and was sitting quietly with his arms wrapped around the steering wheel, staring up at the clear night sky; bright with a million stars.

"See that one over there, forty degrees or so above the horizon?"

James leaned forward, braced himself against the dash with his forearms, and peered out the windshield. In that overly dark section of town, they had a perfect view of the vibrant heavens and looking up into the sky, James saw a star as bright and beautiful as the moon itself, and knew immediately that was the star Dean was pointing out. James nodded without saying a word.

"That's Venus," Dean stated confidently. "She's not always that bright, but she's always beautiful."

James turned to study Dean's profile in the dash light and found that the man looked surprisingly at ease.

"You spend a lot of time looking at her?" James asked quietly and Dean answered with a nod.

"I've spent almost my whole life on the road, and this sky…it's like my security blanket. As long as they're still up there, looking down on me, then I know everything's going to be okay. One way or another, it's gonna be okay."

"We are still talking stars, right?" James asked, looking back up into the night sky.

Dean huffed out a short, dry laugh. "Maybe."

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><p><em>His hands were healed<em>. James hadn't been able to shake the thought from his head. He'd had trouble falling asleep; tossing and turning, and counting the hours by staring at the ceiling; trying and failing miserably to keep Dean out of his thoughts. But the man had a way of sneaking back in, and if James stared too hard into the darkness above, Dean's brilliant night sky would open above him on the plaster ceiling.

When he finally drifted off, James's sleep was equally troubled; blurred with images and sounds from the earlier part of the night: wild, dark eyes rimmed with hazel – _"You can't do that!" – _a strong hand closed around a brother's throat – _"You can't change the rules." _– the sick, dull thunk of a man's skull slamming against the wall – "_People and demons; yes, but you can't taunt me with Angels_." – and the voice of a young man at war within himself, filled with pure violence and terror – _"You said you can't!"_

The morning sun broke through the curtains, splashing its warmth across James's face, and causing him to jerk suddenly out of his sleep. Groaning, he flopped over on his belly, used his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light, and squinted at the bedside clock. 7.00 am. He did the math in his head and groaned again.

"I'm too old for this."

He rolled out of bed slowly and padded down the short hallway to the bathroom to splash water over his face at the sink. The small room was lit with the soft, golden glow of a nightlight, and James leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror to study how the light played in the dripping water and deep shadows of his face. He seemed nearly unrecognizable. _"You don't-you don't know who I am?" _Dean's voice echoed out of the past.

"Hell," James answered to himself, "I don't even know who _I_ am."

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><p>He climbed onto the metro bus, nodding to the driver in passing and found an empty seat so he could watch the town fly by. James had always taken the ten minute ride into the work as time to collect himself and prepare for his day, but today the furthest thing from his mind was work. Truth be told, he was trying to keep his mind free and clear of any thoughts, as they kept veering back towards Dean.<p>

"_Dammit, don't pretend you can't hear me." _

The bus pulled over and came to a halt at a designated stop and James lurched forward out of his seat, moving quickly to the front and off of the bus.

"Hey, this isn't your stop," the driver called after him.

"It is today," James muttered to himself, moving away from the bus and away from the homeless shelter that stood half a mile up the street. He had no idea where he was going; no destination in mind. He just knew that he couldn't keep going that direction. Dean would be there; waiting for him. He didn't know how he knew that exactly. It was just a hunch, but a hunch that James would stake a week's pay on and running into Dean…not in James's game plan today. He needed time and space and…and time to think; to sort through all of this…information overload that was swimming around in his head. Or better yet, to not have to think about it.

He walked swiftly, zig-zagging his way through town, past small, privately owned shops. Everywhere there were people bustling inside and out as they prepared for the business day, and the bitter scent of percolating coffee and just-baked bread wafted out through doors propped open to let the fresh spring air in. It all provided a much needed distraction, and grateful, James felt himself relax a bit and his pace slow.

James peeled off and entered one of the shops; a small, quiet used book store, tucked into a recessed nook in a row of shops. The store was cozy and peaceful; its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling book cases and a well-lit reading area tucked in to the center of a handful of stacks. The front of the shop was designated as a small café, and behind a glass case, stood an older man in old fashioned apron strings, looking like someone plucked from the pages of Little House on the Prairie. The man wiped his hands on his apron and leaned his hip into a counter.

"Mornin'," he greeted. "Can I get you anything?"

"G'morning," James answered, his eyes still sweeping throughout the store. "Thanks, but I think I'll just wander around for a bit."

The man nodded and added, "Give a holler if you need anything."

James's head dipped in appreciation, and then he crossed to the nearest bookcase. He spent half an hour wandering through the books, his fingers tracing over the leather bindings as he went. There was something sensual in the gilded pages and hand-laced bindings of the older volumes; a scent of age and experience in their fanned pages. James breathed deeply, relishing in the feeling of relief he found between their covers.

He stumbled across a selection of hand-picked must-reads from the 19th Century laid out on a table, with titles such as _Alice in Wonderland_, _Red Badge of Courage_, _Oliver Twist_, just to name a few. James snatched up a well-worn copy of _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ and found a seat in a comfortable, red leather chair. With his feet propped up and crossed on a foot stool, he read.

'_TOM!'_

_No Answer._

'_TOM!'_

_No Answer._

'_What's wrong with that boy, I wonder? You Tom!'_

_No Answer._

What _was_ wrong with that boy? Now _there_ was a question. James caught himself laughing; his mind immediately reverting to Dean, and he quickly smothered the laugh by clamping a hand over his mouth.

Forget Dean. What was wrong with _him_?

James had been unable to hold onto a single thought without drifting back to the previous day's happenings. He'd skipped out of work without even bothering to call in, and now he was meandering through a pocket-sized book store and for what? In the hope that he could avoid the inevitable?

And what was it exactly that had him running scared?

"_My hand…it's healed. They both are."_

He'd seen it with his own eyes; had touched the new, unblemished skin with his own, and it had been perfect and flawless, not even a scratch. The impossibility of it scared James beyond reason. That and the fear which he had felt beneath Dean's steadfast belief that James had been the reason behind the healing, had been all the excuse James needed to go running for the hills.

The idea that he could magically hocus pocus Dean's hands back together was ridiculous, and James had to wonder a bit about the man's sanity for even concocting the hair-brained idea. And yet James couldn't come up with a single medical explanation for the miracle healing. He couldn't fool himself into believing that Dean's hands hadn't been as bad as he'd imagined, because he'd treated them himself. He'd witnessed first-hand how torn up and bruised the skin was, damage so bad that it couldn't possibly heal in one week, let alone one day. So if not science, what then?

Certainly not this fairytale notion of James possessing 'the healing touch' or whatever nonsense Dean had come up with. That was just…impossible. James wasn't magical – he shook his head in exasperation – he wasn't Harry Potter for crying out loud. However that didn't seem to matter to Dean; he'd latched onto miraculous thinking with the desperation of a man whose entire world was dying, frantic with the need to save his brother, by any means necessary, even if that meant breaking _into_ the Mental Health Institute and practically demanding that James heal his brother with his 'magical touch'. James was left wondering what the Hell he had managed to get himself into. Dean had seemed like a normal guy when he'd met him. He'd seemed like a normal guy all the way up until the moment he'd said: _"I brought you here so you could help my brother."_

James's mind spun out of control; his thoughts, like a scratched record were stuck in a continuous loop, repeating the same things over and over, and he felt as though if he didn't get a grip on things, he might lose control of his senses. So he clambered out of the chair; dropped Mark Twain down into the seat, and stood in the center of the reading area not quite sure what to do, except to breathe. He was frustrated, and tugging on his hair he realized that he was also failing miserably at hiding that frustration. James let his hands fall from his hair, shook them out by his side and attempted to roll the tension out of his neck and shoulders. As he did so, he turned around in the small reading area, letting his eyes drift closed and his hands come up to stretch above his head, letting go of all the clutter in his mind. And when he reopened his eyes and they had a chance to adjust to his surroundings again, he saw and was drawn to another book. James stepped towards the bookcase, pulling on the edge of the spine to tug to book down.

"C.S. Lewis."

"He wrote the _Chronicles of Narnia_." The voice so close to him startled James and he bobbled the book in his hands before finding a firm grasp on it. He turned surprised eyes on the shop owner who was standing beside him with a polystyrene cup in his hand. "You looked like you could use some coffee," he said, adding, "It's on the house."

"Oh, thank you," James said appreciatively. He took the proffered cup, took a tentative sip and found it surprisingly just how he liked it; strong and dark. "Thank you," he repeated.

When asked whether he had read C.S. Lewis before, James shook his head and answered that he didn't recall having done so. He held up a plainly decorated paperback entitled, _Miracles_, and asked, "Have you read this one?"

"I've read everything here," the man quipped. "I found _Miracles_ to be particularly persuasive and…comforting."

For reasons unknown to him, James frowned in confusion.

"Do you believe in miracles, son?" the shop owner asked.

"I, uh…I'm not sure."

The shop owner nodded. "Sounds like you've been found then."

"Found?"

"I have this saying: A man doesn't choose a book; the book chooses the man. And it looks as though this one's found its way to you. Perhaps today is a good day to explore, maybe find out if you believe in miracles or not."

James turned the book over, studying the back cover thoughtfully.

Do miracles really happen? Can we know if the supernatural world exists? C.S. Lewis shows that a Christian must rejoice in miracles as a testimony of the unique personal involvement of God in creation. Lewis challenges the rationalists and cynics who are mired in their lack of imagination and provides a poetic and joyous affirmation that miracles really do occur in our everyday lives.

"Yeah, maybe," James answered softly. He flipped into the first chapter and read the first line aloud, "Those who wish to succeed must ask the right preliminary questions."

The shop owner nodded and with a smile, said, "Aristotle, a brilliant naturalist, however, you're unlikely to find the answers to your questions in his philosophies."

"How can I be sure? I have so many questions…I've got them comin' out of my ears. How do I know which ones are the right ones?"

"It's not whether the question is right or wrong, it's whether you're asking the right person. Take the book, son. Take it and find the answers you're looking for."

James folded his hands over his chest, hugging the book and his coffee to him, and dipped his head in agreement. He followed the shop owner up to the register and then remembered the other book he'd cast aside when his thoughts had overwhelmed him.

"Just one second." Excusing himself, James jogged back to the red reading chair, gathered up the forgotten _Tom Sawyer_, and brought it back to the counter. "I'll take this one too."

When James left the book store, he made a phone call into the shelter and had his schedule cleared for the day. The clerk working the desk, confirming that a man had been there looking for him shortly after 8.00. James wasn't sure if he was relieved not to have been there, or guilty at having purposefully avoided Dean, but what was done was done, and he could only move forward.

He continued to wander the streets, with no destination in mind; just letting his feet carry him. Too busy reading his new book to watch where he was going; James was surprised when he suddenly found himself standing on the edge of some random park in the middle of town. It wasn't anything fancy, quite the opposite in fact; just an open green space, dotted with a handful of shade trees that were just beginning to fully leaf out. On the end of the park nearest to him, sat a children's playground. It was dressed in bright yellow, blue and red, with park benches that lined the pebbled play area, and James wandered into it, found a seat on one of those benches and continued reading.

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><p>Looking up into the sky, James tried to judge how much time had passed since he'd come to rest on the park bench. It had been several hours at least, as the sun had moved a great deal across the pale blue sky, and when James stood up, setting his books to the side, he found his butt tingling and flattened by the long exposure to the metal bench. He rubbed absently at his backside and then allowed himself a good long stretch.<p>

Half the day – gone. How had he managed to lose himself for that long? Although, James shouldn't complain, it had been the most relaxing few hours he'd had over the last twenty-four, and he had even managed to come more to grips with the events of the previous night.

Perhaps he had rushed to judgment over what Dean had been saying in Sam's room. Maybe he should have taken the time to listen better to what Dean had been trying to tell him. It seemed quite clear now, that Dean hadn't meant to say that he thought James was magical, but instead had meant something completely different. As James had read through the book, one thing had stood out in his memory. The fact that Dean had referred to James's surviving his drowning as a miracle. If James looked at everything from this newly opened view, he could see how Dean would come to such a conclusion. James had woken from a coma that he was never intended to recover, Dean's hands had been healed – also in James's presence, and finally, Dean had dragged James to his brother's bedside with the hope that whatever miracle mumbo jumbo James had working for him, would also work for Sam.

It was a far-fetched idea, unless of course you were Dean, a man so desperate to protect the one thing he had left – his family – that he was capable of believing in miracles and the power of his own will and even Angels.

"_You're like an Angel watchin' over me or something."_

Picking up his books, James slipped them into his jacket pocket and set out to wander the bicycle path that skirted the park; to think over his next course of action. The safest and probably the most rational choice would be for him to forget it all; pretend that he'd never met Dean, never been introduced to his situation, never been given the chance to become the least bit invested. But it was too late; he had become invested, and how could he possibly turn his back on the man now? _"You__'re not alone in this."_ That's exactly what he'd said to Dean that first night on his door stoop when he'd mistaken Dean for a man down on his luck and handed him a ten and directed him toward the shelter. Stupid. Why hadn't he taken the time to listen? It was what the shelter was paying him for, after all – to listen. Instead he'd taken on the 'shoot first, ask questions later' mentality and had only heard what he'd wanted to hear.

So what _had_ Dean really said? _"My brother…he was pretty much the only thing I had. And…now I don't." "He's my responsibility; has been since I was four years old…"_ It was no secret that of everything and everyone in Dean's life, Sam was most important. He wore that bright and bold on his sleeve – I'm a big brother – like a badge of honor. That fact was absolute. So what had James missed?

James thought long and hard, making his fourth loop around the park, and then he remembered. There had been one moment the previous night which might have normally set alarms ringing in James's head, _if_ he'd truly been paying attention.

Having become defensive, Dean had come at James with: _"You could have __family__ out there, man. And friends who care about you, __depend__ on you, but instead you're here living this…other life. You could be someone important."_ The remark had come in response to James's own situation and his inability to remember who he had been before his accident. Now, looking at that conversation from the outside, James saw real turmoil in Dean's words, and James felt it only right for him to take it upon himself to suss out the reasons behind that turmoil.

"You're not alone in this," he echoed his earlier words. "I won't let you be."

And remembering the words of the book store owner, _"It's not whether the question is right or wrong, it's whether you're asking the right person,"_ James set off in search of the one person who might possible offer more insight into this perplexing situation.


	11. Chapter 11

AN: So my intention had been to have this chapter up before Friday Night's episode, because I knew that my story was about to get Kripked. I did NOT expect for that to happen the way it did. So, I have chosen artist license and gone slightly more AU at the beginning of this chapter. Dammit, Frank. You couldn't have waited one more week? Also, this fic is officially off the spoiler list, thanks to the preview for next week's ep. One left to go. :)

AN2: I hid an Easter Egg inside this chapter. Can you find it?

Disclaimer: I don't own them. If I did, I would have waited one more week to get rid of Frank.

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><p>"Are you out of your mind? I'm not <em>going<em> anywhere, Frank."

Dean's phone had rung just as he had been about to step out of his motel room. His plan was to go out in search of James, hoping to catch him at work and smooth over the previous night's misunderstandings, which Dean was more than willing to accept the blame for. He hadn't been in his right mind; the beer and the concussion loosening his tongue _and_ his senses until all manner of crap was spilling out of him. He wasn't even entirely sure what he'd said to James, he only knew that it hadn't been good. James's reaction had been immediate and stern: _"We're leaving. Right now."_ And Dean had reluctantly obeyed, because he knew he'd screwed up.

But he'd be damned if he was going to obey now.

"I don't think you understand. Dick Roman could have a meeting with Obama himself and I wouldn't give two shits. I'm not leaving my brother. I've got a line on something here, and if everything falls into place –" Dean paused to take in what Frank had just bellowed into his end of the receiver. "Oh…Dick _does_ have a meeting with Obama…shit," he swore under his breath.

Dean collapsed down onto the end of his twin bed, rubbing hard at the headache that had instantly flared up behind his brow.

"Isn't there anybody else we could get to take care of this?" he asked, sagging beneath the obligation. He held the phone away from his ear to avoid Frank's brassy griping. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I don't trust anybody either, but dammit, why's this gotta go down now? It's like he knows. Like he's fuckin' with me, because he knows Sammy's down for the count."

Dean went quiet again listening to Frank's barking before asking with a heavy sigh, "When and where?" He snatched up a pen and paper from the bedside table and scribbled down the words: Friday and Philadelphia. It was a Hell of a drive; nearly an entire day if Dean drove straight through and that would leave him with only a few hours to prepare and _no_ back up. He briefly considered Garth, then shook his head and thought better of it. The kid was a good guy, but he was a walking disaster and Dean couldn't chance putting either Garth or himself at that kind of risk. He'd have to go it alone.

Leaning to rest his elbows against his knees, Dean sighed again, resigned in the fact that this was undoubtedly a suicide mission.

"I need to talk to Sammy first," Dean said, lowering his head into his hand, but when Frank tried to argue with him about driving time, he popped up off of the bed like a shot. "I'll make time, Goddammit. That's my little brother and if there's a chance that I'm not coming back, I owe it to him to at least tell him goodbye. I can't not say goodbye." Dean swallowed thickly, trying to wash away the knot that was quickly forming in his throat, and then growled, "So, yes. I'll be cuttin' it close. Sue me."

* * *

><p>Soul-rending screams, like the steel on steel grinding of armored tanks; it was just one track in a playlist of sounds that looped in Sam's ears twenty-four seven, and it wasn't even the worst one. But all the noise and the cluttered voices faded away when the door creaked open, and instead a new sound filled his head; soft and high, but not unpleasant, and it made Sam's heart pound beyond his control.<p>

"You just gonna stand there, lurking, or are you going to come in?" Sam asked quietly; his voice only audible because the bare walls echoed the sound around. His back was turned to the room, but he hadn't needed to see the doorway to know that he was no longer alone.

"You don't seem surprised that I'm here," James said, entering the room and pressing the door closed behind him.

"Not much that does surprise me anymore."

Sam sounded tired, to James; his voice was weak and raspy from either disuse or abuse; James couldn't be sure which. He _looked_ tired too. Lying on his side, Sam's long, lanky body was pulled up into a loose fetal-like position; his arms wrapped around folded legs and his head lay at an awkward, uncomfortable angle on a flat pillow.

James circled around and sank down into the chair beside the bed, only asking for permission after the fact. Sam, with his eyes held closed, nodded his approval, and James slid the chair closer to the bed; turning it so that they could sit face to face.

"Can I ask you a question?" Sam asked, his eyes finally peeking out from behind pale, bruised lids. In them, James could see a flash of fear, recognition, and then…something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Shoot," James responded, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees.

Sam frowned slightly, his brow drawing into a concentrated wrinkle above the bridge of his nose, and then he slowly shook his head.

"You're not him, are you?"

"No," James answered simply; not truly understanding the question, but feeling that it was better not to get the man upset like he had been the previous night.

Sam pondered that, and then asked, "but you are…real?"

"Definitely." James laid his left hand, palm up, on the mattress; far enough away as not to startle Sam, but close enough for the younger man to reach out and grasp it.

And Sam did. He stretched out his hand and slid his palm, skin against skin, wrapping his hand around James's thumb, and holding on for dear life. He let out an uneven breath, swallowed thickly and nodded.

Clearing his throat, James asked hesitantly, "Do you remember me coming to see you, Sam?"

Sam let his eyes drift shut and nodded again, shakily.

"I thought I was dreaming again," Sam admitted with a raspy whisper, "you know…now that I'm sleeping again." Sam frowned, thinking that over, and then he opened glassy eyes to look directly at James. "Why are you here now, when I'm awake?"

James gave Sam's hand a light squeeze to remind the younger man that he was in fact real. "Because I have questions and I think maybe you can answer them. Do you think you're up for that?"

"I'll try," Sam said honestly. "Doc says I'm having a good day."

"That's good, Sam. One day at a time, that's very good."

Slowly, Sam pushed himself up from the bed, until he was sitting, cross-legged in front of James, still clinging to the man's hand. James wasn't about to pull out of Sam's hold, not if it helped to ground him so that they could talk.

"Just a couple of questions," he assured Sam, "You answer what you can and tell me if we need to stop, okay? There's no wrong answers here, alright?"

"Okay." Taking a long moment to gather himself, Sam finally sighed, "I think I'm ready."

"What does family mean to you, Sam?"

"Dean." There was no hesitation in the man's answer.

"This isn't word association. You can feel free to expound further…if you're able."

"I'm able, but the answer is still Dean."

"Do you have parents?"

Sam bowed his head; his long, bed-mussed hair swaying down into his face and acting as a curtain to hide him from James's prying eyes when he answered, "They're dead."

"Both of them?" James hadn't been expecting that answer. Sam and Dean were both fairly young men and so it came as quite a shock to learn that they were without both parents. "Do you have other siblings?"

"A brother, Adam – dead. Our uncle, Bobby – dead. Grandfather, cousins…everyone is dead."

With his free hand, James covered his mouth in shock; his chest tightening in sympathy. It was no wonder that Dean felt such an overwhelming responsibility to protect his brother. Everyone they'd ever had was gone. James imagined that Dean was probably holding on so tightly to his little brother because he was terrified that he might lose him as well. Looking at Sam and the situation he was currently in, James couldn't fault Dean at all.

"I am so sorry," James said with complete sincerity.

Sam accepted that with a nod and then looked up, meeting James's heart-sick gaze, and whispered, "Sometimes…when the voices talk too loud and my brain fills up with them, I think…maybe it'd be okay for me to be dead too." The wrinkle across Sam's forehead arched high above his nose and his deep-set eyes pulled down and filled with the high gloss of unshed tears. "But I can't leave my brother. And I – I don't wanna go without him."

James felt all the air rush out of his lungs like he'd been punched in the gut by Sam's confession. Sitting there like he was, with his legs drawn up in front of him and his hair in his eyes, Sam looked like a frightened child, and it was all James could do not to wrap the young man up in his arms to ease his fear and hurt. He thought about how Dean had talked of Sam; his voice almost reverent when he had spoken his brother's name, and now absorbing Sam's pain, James could feel the bond between the brothers and his heart clenched painfully.

His entire body ached with a loss he didn't understand or remember, and he was reminded once again of Dean's words and had to admit that he was indeed living 'another life'. How could he do any different? He'd pursued every avenue of inquiry possible in the hope of discovering who he had been – _"You could be someone important." _– and he had to wonder what, from his previous life, was he missing out on.

"Dean…he's very important to you, isn't he? I mean, I know you care an awful lot about him; he is your brother after all, so you love him, but you seem closer than most brothers. "

Sitting up straight, Sam blinked. He reached up his free hand and swiped away the tears that had formed and were clinging to his lashes. Then pushed his hair away from his face, and in doing so, allowed James his first _real_ look at the man who was Sam; not the scared, overgrown child he'd just witnessed or the angry, out-for-blood young man who had attacked his own brother the previous night, but Sam. He looked confident and healthy; his eyes clear and bright and his head held high. The only indication that there was anything wrong at all was the way he continued to grip James's hand.

"Well, Dean did practically raise me. He's pretty much the only person who's ever _really_ been there for me; even _after_ everything that's happened."

"That's what brothers are for, right?" James said with a heavy nod of approval. "They look after ya, keep you in line, show you the ropes; especially big brothers."

"Yeah, but it's more than that – _he's_ more than that, and not just to me." Sam shook his head, his eyes growing wide with dawning realization. "And he _shouldn't_ be here," he stated firmly. "Dean needs to be out there…working, not here, waiting on me. Can you – do you think you can convince him to leave?"

"What?" James gasped; his jaw dropping. "He's not gonna _leave_ you. Why would you even ask that? Can't _work_ wait?"

"No. It's too important."

"Too import–" James bit off his sharp reply and rubbed at his suddenly pounding temples. "As important as work may be, don't you think you're _just_ as important?"

"Dean would probably say I am, but I don't know. I'd like to be."

"You _are_. I'm sure of it. Dean hasn't mentioned work once; he's too busy worrying about you."

"Yeah, well, he's wasting his time worrying and waiting for me to get better. It's not gonna happen. You and I _both_ know I'm not gonna get better. Not without _divine_ intervention…_right_?"

James stared at him dumbly, wondering why Sam thought that _he_ would know anything about his case, other than perhaps what Dean might have let slip. And why did he suddenly feel uncomfortable and kind of guilty when Sam chose to word the statement the way he had: _You and I both know…_ Sam had lumped them together like a combined force to counter Dean's opinion, and it felt like betrayal to James; hot and bitter in his stomach and strangely enough, not that foreign.

But pushing all of that aside, James latched onto the one word that stood out amongst all the others: divine. And he was quick to ask, "Do you believe in God, Sam?"

"Yes. Of course," Sam cocked his head to the side to stare at James curiously. "I mean, I've _never_ needed proof – not like Dean did – but, well…you being here…it's kinda–"

"Kind of a miracle? Pretty sure that's what your brother thinks too."

"No. In our experience, miracles don't just happen, but Dean's so desperate for it to be true, because if you made it, then there's hope for me."

James's expression clouded and he sat back in his chair, surprised by Sam's words. He might have pulled his hand away too, if Sam hadn't been clinging to him as if his life depended on it. Had Sam known about Dean's intentions?

"It's not your fault," Sam said; his eyes going incredibly sad. "I know you would have made it better, if you could have. And I'm sorry," Sam whispered; his voice wavering and his eyes re-filling with tears.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, I can't see my brother? Why the Hell not?"<p>

"Mr. Singer–"

"No. Don't you Mr. Singer me. I've followed your–" Dean cut himself off before unleashing a firestorm of swear words, none of which would win him any points. He took a deep breath to temper his words with patience; something of which Dean was in very short supply. "Doc," he pleaded, "I've done everything you and the hospital have asked me to do; followed all the protocol, but you still won't let me in to see him. It's important that I see him…Please."

"If you'll let me continue…" The doctor gave Dean a pointed stare and waiting for a sign from Dean, that he would not be interrupted again, "I can't let you in to see him _right now_, because he is _with_ Dr. Scott, currently." Dean opened his mouth to argue, but the doctor held his hand up to silence him and continued, "As soon their allotted time is up, you are free to see your brother."

"Who is this…Dr. Scott?" Dean asked; his voice clipped and demanding.

But if the doc noticed the tension in Dean's voice, he didn't show it. He checked the chart in one hand and his watch on the other, saying, "Dr. Ronald Belford Scott; someone the hospital had sent over this morning for a follow-up. They should be wrapped up within the hour. I know it is a hard thing to do, but if you'll just wait here, an orderly will be along to escort you back when Sam is available. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another patient to attend to."

And then he walked briskly away, leaving Dean alone and growing increasingly concerned in the waiting room. Dean's mind raced with possibilities; scary, black, oozing possibilities that made his blood run cold.

"Screw this."

Reaching into his pocket, Dean retrieved the stolen key card from his wallet. He timed the movements of the nurses and orderlies, and when everyone was preoccupied, made a stealthy advance on the door; the only thing separating him from his brother. He slid the card through the machine and when the indicator light turned green; Dean rolled his eyes and slipped through the door, unseen.

Dean moved down the hall quickly, grumbling as he went. "This place is legitimately crap, and I am so busting you out of here, Sammy…first chance I get."

* * *

><p>"Come on man, it's alright." James slid out of his chair and across the space between them, coming to rest shoulder to shoulder beside Sam. He wrapped an arm around the trembling man, and rubbed fast circles into his back. "It's gonna be okay."<p>

"No," Sam argued, shaking his head weakly, "It's not okay. We could have made this better. It didn't have to be like this. You didn't have to be alone. I-I'm…" he stuttered, swallowing thickly, "I'm so sorry," Sam rasped out, and with that, the tears tipped over Sam's lashes, spilling quickly down his cheeks and falling like rain into his lap. He squeezed his eyes shut; his mouth pursed and trembling, trying so hard to hold back the flow of emotion.

"Oh God," James's breath caught in his throat and his own eyes burned empathetically for the guy, reduced to tears, collapsing into him. Man, he was in _way_ over his head with this. Bad enough he'd conned his way into Sam's room, with a phony hospital badge and the paperwork he'd quickly doctored up at home, but now he literally had his arms full of half-crazy, half-despair, and no clue what to do about it.

But when Sam began to tremble against James's side, there was no further internal argument to be had; human instinct and the overwhelming need to protect took over and James did the only thing he could do. He pulled his hand free from Sam's and pulled him in, wrapping him up in an awkwardly positioned hug, and leaning his chin into the top of Sam's head. Holding on to him, James felt Sam surrender to his warm embrace; clinging to him, and mumbling inarticulate words into the crease of James's shoulder.

For his part, James shushed quietly into Sam's hair; trying to soothe him with his voice. "You're okay. Nothin' for you to be sorry for. Shhh." He moved his hand up the length and circled Sam's broad back, rubbing warmth in and chasing away his shivers. "I've got ya," he said, letting his hand come to rest at the back of Sam's head. "I'm sorry Sam, I wish I could fix this for you; make it all better."

He felt Sam nod against him. "I know," Sam rasped, and his voice broke on a sob and a name.

"I don't –" James stopped, choking on a new thought, realizing that all along he had been asking the wrong questions...again. He struggled with it for a moment before taking a shaky breath. He pressed Sam away from him, pushed the mop of hair out of the man's face until they could see each other, and asked, "Sam, do you…do you know who I am?"

"Get away from my–" The door banged open and Dean burst into the room, ready to tear the threat limb from limb, but pulled up short, his jaw dropping in shock. "James?"


	12. Chapter 12

AN: Just a reminder; this fic was written ENTIRELY before the airing of S07E17. This was _my_ take on the reemergence of Castiel and the ONLY spoilers taken into account were: A. Sam would be hospitalized. B. Castiel would be reintroduced. Thank you so much to all the lovely people who have taken the time to read, favorite, review, etc. If you haven't already, I'd love to hear what you think. I - like most fanfic writers - are review whores. Don't forget to leave a bit of cash for your whores. ;-)

Disclaimer: I don't own them. If I did, Sam would wear scuff all the time. I _like_ Scruffy!Sam.

* * *

><p>Dean burst into the room and then stopped abruptly. "James?" His wide, unbelieving eyes narrowed; a scowl darkening his features as he laid eyes on the last person he expected to see. The man was sitting on <em>Sam<em>'s bed with his arms wrapped around _Sam_'s shoulders, holding _Sam_ up. "What the Hell are you – Sammy? What's wrong?"

Fear swept through him, and Dean moved into action, circling the bed and knocking James's relinquished chair out of the way. He skidded to his knees in front of them, and reached out for his brother, but just as he did, Sam seized a hold of James's wrist, and before the man could yank himself free of the tight grip, Sam placed James's hand against the crown of his head. Almost immediately, Sam's eyes rolled up into his head, and he pitched forward out of the bed, slumping heavily against Dean's chest.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I got ya little brother." He grunted from the strain of righting Sam's limp form, and called for James's help. James, who had fallen back in shock, jumped to Dean's aid and together, they hefted Sam back onto the bed and eased the unconscious man all of the way down until he was lying on his side like he had been when James had first arrived.

Dean leaned over his brother, and waited quietly for the quick-hammering pulse beneath the pads of his fingers, and then breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh Sammy, what did you do, zap yourself?"

Behind him, James paced the narrow width of the room, rubbing worrisome circles into the palm of his hand – the same hand which had lain on Sam's head when he'd lost consciousness. "I don't understand," James said, shaking, "Why does this keep happening?"

Dean stood and turned on James; his eyes dark with accusation.

"_You_ don't understand? _I_ don't understand. What are you even doing here? Wait," Dean's eyes narrowed again, "are you – are you Dr. Scott?"

James stopped, raised his hands in surrender and backed cautiously away. "Dean, I can explain. I –"

A hand went up, stopping James's words, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Robert Belford Scott," he said. "You went with _Bon_ Scott as an alias?"

"Well…yeah," James shrugged. "I kinda thought it was fitting, seeing as he drowned and you know…I drowned."

"In his own vomit. James, man, what're you doin'?" Dean's voice was tight, strained and filled with concern. On one hand, the situation was just slightly humorous as it was exactly what Dean would have done himself under the same circumstances, but on the other hand, James was taking a great risk; putting himself in danger of getting caught and putting both his _and_ Sam's safety at risk. In Sam's current state, he was unpredictable and no one – not even Dean – could anticipate Sam's reaction to seeing 'Cas'.

"So, you what, scammed your way into a psych hospital? You know there's some people, like that doc out there," Dean said, tilting his head toward the door, "who would probably want to book you a room here for pulling this kind of stunt. What were you thinking?"

"Wait a minute," James bit off. "I could ask you the same thing. Okay, so maybe this wasn't the most intelligent plan I've ever had, but last night, you actually broke into this place. So who are you to lecture me about clear thinking?"

"Yeah, well…I know what I'm doing and you don't. You haven't got a clue what you're getting yourself into."

"Whose fault is that? God, Dean! You are the _most_…infuriating person, I have _ever_ met. I know you less than twenty-four hours, and you're dragging me off to break half a dozen laws. For what? To cure the coo-coo for cocoa puffs that is your brother with a wave of my magic wand? Which is not a euphemism by the way."

"Hey!"

"And another thing…I might _have a clue_," James flashed a set of quotation fingers in the air, "if you'd been honest with me from the jump. But you haven't. You know who hides things, Dean? Liars."

"What have I hidden?"

"Like, oh, I don't know…how about my own name."

Dean blanched; the look on his face like he'd just been caught sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar, and James could only shake his head in disbelief.

"It's true," James breathed, falling backwards against the wall behind him.

It wasn't a question. Until that exact moment, James hadn't truly believed it possible, but seeing the color drain from Dean's face was all the proof he needed. "Oh my God. I mean, I knew it was something, cuz man…you've got a terrible poker face."

Dean pulled a disgusted face and started to argue, but James cut him off.

"So…were you going to tell me?"

"Yes," Dean cried, indignantly, but then his head bobbed side-to-side as though he were weighing the decision. "No," he admitted.

"No?" James echoed levelly.

"You don't understand. There's a lot you don't know."

"You're damned straight, there's a lot I don't know," James growled. "Let's start with the fact that you know me? Who the Hell am I, Dean?"

"It's complicated."

"Well, uncomplicate it." The staccato notes of his voice hammered into Dean, making him involuntarily draw back his shoulders in response to the barked order.

"I can't," he shook the request away. "This is so colossally fucked up, that I don't even know where to begin."

"Pick a place, just…start somewhere. What's my name?"

Dean took a raged breath and did everything in his power not to look at James.

"What's my name, Dean?" James asked more pointedly.

"Cas! Alright? Your name was…Cas."

"Was that so hard?"

"Yes." Dean's arms flapped out from his side and back down, slapping against his thighs. "Everything about this is hard. Look, I don't expect you to understand, but _this_…what you have _here_… You have a home and a job that are safe and secure. You have a woman…what's her name?"

"Kay."

"You have Kay to go home to, and you had this chance to start over and because of that, you've got this…normal, happy life. How can I unleash all this crap on you and take that life away from you? No…_this_ is better."

"How would you be taking _anything_ away from me? You'd be giving me answers! I _need_ answers, Dean, and who are _you_ to make that decision for me anyway?"

"Because it's _my_ fault you're here to begin with," Dean surged on, "It's my fault Sammy's here. Lately, it just seems like every decision I've ever made is coming back to haunt me, and they've all ended up hurting someone I love, and I can't. I just can't do it anymore. I can't keep losing people and letting the people around me get hurt. Just…it's just better this way. Please."

"I happen to think knowing the truth would be better."

"You can't handle the truth."

James rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Really? You're gonna quote Nicholson to me? And what do you even mean by that? _I__t's your fault_? Did you, I don't know…did you do something to hurt me? Are you the reason that I had my accident?"

"No."

"Well, okay then."

"No, I just didn't do _enough_. Look, I know you don't remember and I can't really get into all of it right now, cuz it's just…too big. But, I _will_ admit that I should have done more. We both made our share of mistakes, some of them huge and unforgivable, but you were my friend – my best friend – and a lot of what went down could have been avoided if I'd just…but then, you were dead. All these months, and I've had all this time to think; too much time, and I don't know that we could have ever fixed this 'thing' between us, but then you were gone and any chance we'd had was gone too."

"Except that I'm not dead."

"Yeah, except that." Dean slumped down into the chair and ran a tired hand over his forehead and up into his hair, worrying at the short strands.

"So, my being alive…is that some kind of miracle? Cuz you keep hinting around at this div–"

"No."

"No," James mirrored. "No, because you…don't believe? Or no, because you and God 'are fighting'?"

Dean's brow cocked up high on his forehead and slowly he looked up from beneath heavily, shadowed lashes. His head tipped to the side and he studied James; searching the man for the reason he'd asked such a specific question.

"Sam told me."

"Course he did." Dean said, rolling his eyes. "_No_, because God…ain't doing us anymore favors, cuz if it _was_ God, then he wouldn't have left Sam like this."

"That's pretty egotistical, don't you think? Like God would really save just one person?"

"Why not? You did…twice."

"Yeah, well, I'm not God."

Dean snorted out a humorless laugh; his tongue sweeping across his suddenly dry mouth. He hadn't meant for that bit of information to come spilling out the way it had, and now James was eyeing him with apprehension.

"What?" James asked, "Why do you have that look on your face?"

Dean was saved the uncomfortable conversation when beside him, Sam stirred, moaning quietly.

"D'n?"

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. What took you so long?"

Sam's eyes slanted open just far enough to cast a dark glance at Dean, then he blinked twice, long and slow, before letting them fall closed again, saying, "Not Sleeping Beauty."

"Come on, Sammy, you know you'll always be my little princess," Dean teased. He moved from the chair to sit down on the edge of the bed, brushing the hair away from Sam's face, and becoming quite serious, asked, "How you doin' kiddo?"

Sam groaned, rolling into the dip of the bed where Dean sat, weakly adjusting so that he could lay belly down on the thin mattress, and Dean did what he could to help his debilitated brother.

"Was I sleepin'?" Sam asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"For a little bit, yeah. What do you remember?" Dean turned his head and looked across Sam to where James now stood anxious against the far wall and avoiding Dean's eyes.

"Weird dream."

"Yeah? Clowns or midgets?"

Dean bit the inside of his cheek as soon as he'd said it; cussing himself out. God only knew what constituted for 'weird dream' in Sam's mind anymore, and he had been stupid to make light of it given the current situation.

"Cas," Sam answered after a long, dead-silent moment.

James did meet Dean's gaze then. If there had been any doubt about what Dean had revealed to him before, there was no longer. He straightened, stepping closer to listen carefully.

"Yeah, about that," Dean started hesitantly.

"More hallucinations," Sam said, resigned to the fact that the image of the Angel had been in his imagination, just like every other person, place or thing to come across his airwaves in the last couple weeks. The only thing that had remained constant and real had been Dean. "S'okay," Sam said, curling further into Dean's heat, and proving that everything was definitely _not_ okay.

"No," James answered. Stepping closer to the pair, he waved off the look of alarm on Dean's face, "I'm here, Sam."

There was a commotion then, as Sam tried to scramble feebly off of the mattress, and James rounded the bed quickly to help Dean contain the weakened man.

"Get back, dammit," Dean growled, attempting to shove James away, but Sam had already reached out and snagged Dean's arm to stop him. Sam used his hold as leverage to pull himself, until he was sitting upright and staring into the crystalline blue of James's eyes in front of him. Then he looked to Dean for confirmation.

"Is this real?" Sam asked, not trusting any of his senses, and his eyes widened in disbelief when Dean swallowed hard and nodded his head.

"It's him, Sammy," he acknowledged, but then Dean stood suddenly, taking several brisk steps away before circling back with one hand clasped over his mouth and the other sitting tight at his waist.

Sam watched him pace the floor; taking in the tell-tale frown that pulled at Dean's features and the way worry rippled across his brother's jaw.

James, too, watched; his eyes bouncing back and forth between the brothers. Sam, he noticed, looked ill. He was exhausted and beat up, and entirely too vulnerable, while Dean just looked agitated; talking to himself silently and rubbing roughly at his unshaven jaw, like he was attempting to peel the skin from his face.

"You and I gotta talk," Dean said finally; abruptly stopping in front of James, shielding Sam protectively in the process. "Alone," he added, grabbing James beneath the elbow and pulling the strangely compliant man to his feet.

James pulled out of his grasp, but followed him towards the door; agreeing that they needed to have a serious discussion about what exactly was going on. It was all too much to take in, but James had the feeling, that if he stepped out of the situation, there would be no way back in. It was now or never, and James had too many unanswered questions to throw in the towel now.

"Dean?"

Dean tensed, and tried like Hell to push beyond his brother's plea, soothing him the best he could with, "S'okay Sammy. He and I just gotta hash a few things out is all."

"Dean, stop." The desperation in Sam's voice slowed Dean to a halt, and when he looked back, Sam was slumped over, leaning heavily on his knees and breathing hard.

Dean pointed at James with what was clearly a 'don't move', and then went to Sam, squatting down to be able to see his brother's face, and steadied himself against Sam's knee.

"What wrong? Is it…?" Dean paused dramatically, letting his silence fill in the blank for his brother, but Sam shook his head. "Then what?" Dean asked.

"Just don't…okay?" Sam asked. It was a vague request, but years of living in each other's pockets meant that the silent communication between them was second nature, and if Sam wanted him to 'let it go,' well…Dean wasn't making any promises. Sam looked so tired; as tired as Dean had seen him since the breakdown had begun, but there was something else there; the softened edge around Sam's mouth or the steady calm in his eyes that had replaced the haunting look of defeat, and Dean could only swallow and agree to anything that his brother asked of him. "I know this is bad, Dean. I do. But it's just..." Sam glanced over at James, who was waiting quietly to the side, and then back at his brother. "It's quieter, and I feel better with him nearby."

"I know you do." Dean said softly. He could see the truth in that statement; the relief in Sam. He wasn't healed, but he was better and that made this both easier and harder on Dean. "And that's why I gotta talk to him. Okay? Gotta lay things out for him, best that I can."

Sam's brow furled; a pained look crossed his face, and Dean knew instantly that Sam was on to him. Damn Sam for being so clever.

"You gotta job…don't you?"

Dean sighed, and with a half-hearted attempt at a smile, said, "Never could hide anything from you, could I Sammy?"

"Is it Dick?"

Dean nodded, breaking Sam's gaze and picking a spot on the floor to bore into.

"I wanna come with you."

Dean nodded in acknowledgement of Sam's wish and then shook his head in answer. "We both know you can't," he rasped out. "I gotta finish this, Sam."

"Revenge; Winchester family creed since 1983."

Dean looked up to find Sam smirking at him. With a smile of his own, he winked back at his little brother, swallowed down the knot tightening in his throat, and then climbed to his feet with a groan. Sam stayed seated, too weak to pull himself up, but he reached for, grasped and squeezed Dean's hand; holding on as long Dean would allow.

James cleared his throat. Across the room, he had been waiting patiently if a little awkwardly, watching what was obviously meant to be a private conversation. Dean pulled away from his brother and crossed the room quickly.

"Dean…"

He looked back at his brother, one last time.

"Yeah Sammy."

"Don't get killed."

Dean grinned, "Do my best," and walked out the door, followed immediately by James.

* * *

><p>Standing in front of Dean's 'borrowed' Dodge Coronet, Dean reached into and retrieved a set of keys from his pocket. He bounced them in his hand once, and the held them out to James.<p>

"For when he's ready."

James took them into his hand and frowned, looking down at the simple leather key ring with the letters J.W. embossed into the worn cow hide.

"You're just gonna leave him here? Just like that. Huh," James scoffed.

"Huh, what?" Dean asked, daring James to say the wrong thing.

"Nothin'. He just…he said you'd do this."

"Yeah, well…I don't expect you to understand. It's enough for me that Sam does."

Dean stepped off of the curb and walked around to the driver's side of the Coronet, leaving James to stand behind on the sidewalk.

"Sam says you're important," James blurted out, unexpectedly. "What does it mean to you, that word…important?"

Dean considered that for a moment, looking across the car at the man, the Angel he had considered his best friend. Someone he'd trusted almost as much as he'd trusted his own brother; sometimes more. That same someone who had betrayed his trust; not when he'd lied to them, not when he'd worked with Crowley, but when he'd made the choice to risk Sam's life. There was no reason on Earth, Heaven or Hell in which that could be justified.

"You wanna know what important means to me? It means loved. So, if I'm important to Sam…I guess, that's all I really need. Right?"

Dean had all but said that he – Cas – had been 'important', and that idea hit James hard, pretty quickly.

"What did I do?" James asked, "Before. What did I do to make you hate me?"

Dean rolled his eyes and huffed a breath that growled across his throat. "I don't hate you, and what you did…it doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done, and it does neither one of us any good to dredge up a past you can't remember, and it's only gonna open wounds and create more questions. Take it from one who knows, let it drop and live the life you got now."

"How am I supposed to do that when I still have so many questions?"

Dean opened the car door and stopped to lean and fold his hands against the roof of the green Dodge.

"You fix my brother, James," Dean answered matter-of-factly. "You fix him and he'll tell you anything you wanna know."

Dean slid in behind the steering wheel, pushed the keys into the ignition, and the station wagon roared to life. He looked out the side window where James was leaning over the car looking in, and he tried to smile at the Angel as he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.


End file.
